


Stranger Than Fiction

by nyxocity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Meta, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 08:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyxocity/pseuds/nyxocity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meta-comedy/drama set immediately post-4x18, The Monster at the End of This Book. Dean can't stop wondering why people would write gay porn about him and Sam. Research takes him to interesting places; re-reading novels for subtext, visiting message boards, and a really freaky place called LiveJournal. What he discovers is a sick fascination with fanfiction, more about gay sex than he ever wanted to know, and an even deeper obsession with understanding why people write this stuff. Meanwhile, they're hunting a mysterious monster that takes the form of a person's truest love to kill them slowly, the lines between fanfiction and reality are starting to break down, and they still have to stop Lilith and save the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Dziwniejsze niż fikcja](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2712251) by [LoboBathory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoboBathory/pseuds/LoboBathory)



The next morning, after they drive as far away from Lilith and Chuck as they can get, Dean stands in line at a Starbucks in Heber Springs, Arkansas, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat as the person in front of him orders a vanilla something-or-other with extra foam and fairy crystals and puffs of clouds from a unicorn’s ass.

He rolls his eyes, body twisting sideways on his heels, considering the gray morning sky.

Him and Sam. Him and _Sam_?

Really?

There’s the crazy they deal with on a daily basis, and now? Somehow? There’s _even crazier_. 

Why would anyone…? No. There are whole books written about them; every moment, every emotion, full frontal, bared for the entire world to read. They have a Gospel, and books, and fans, and… internet _slash_ for fuck’s sake. There are angels and demons and an _apocalypse_ looming. This is not the time to question the crazy.

He steps up and smiles at the girl behind the register.

*

Dean eyes the motel room as he gets out of the car. When he’d left, Sam was deep in research mode, barricaded behind his computer and so intent on his notes and books that he’d effectively blocked any attempts Dean might have made at conversation. Which was probably a good thing, since any attempts at conversation probably would have ended in yet another argument.

“Got a case,” Sam says as Dean walks through the door.

Sam says it like nothing at all happened last night—like they hadn’t gotten right in the car afterwards and kept driving all night until Dean was nodding off with his hands on the steering wheel. Like Lilith wasn’t just here, thisclose to them, inches from killing Sam.

Like the last forty-eight hours never even happened.

But then… the last two days have been pretty crazy. Even beyond Lilith.

Maybe they _should_ just move on.

The coffee cups in his hands are beginning to burn his skin. 

“Where?” he asks, setting the cups down on the table where Sam’s bent over his laptop.

“North Vernon, Indiana, about ten hours northeast from here. Marcus Dolby, seventy-seven, found dead in his own backyard after eight days of telling neighbors how his wife had returned from the dead to be with him. No visible cause of death, and according to the coroner’s report, no internal cause, either. He was old, but in perfect health.”

Back the way they came from. Damn. “So was this Dolby guy freaking out that his wife was all Reanimator?” Dean asks, sitting down in the seat across from Sam.

Sam’s eyes meet Dean’s meaningfully above the laptop. “He seemed blissful and content, almost drugged, according to the neighbors.”

“Spirit,” Dean says, and Sam nods. 

“But not just him—listen to this—two weeks before Marcus Dolby died? A guy named James Dove in Deerfield, Michigan, was reported as having seen _his_ dead wife outside his house. He called the police to report it, but they just thought he was crazy. Seven days later they found his body at the pond near his home.” Sam’s eyes flick up again. “Cause of death unknown, according to the autopsy report.”

“How far apart?” Dean asks, frowning thoughtfully.

“Hang on,” Sam responds, typing something into his laptop. Sam stops, looking at the results of whatever he just typed. “One week before Marcus Dolby started talking about his dead ex-wife visiting—towns are 298 miles apart. It crossed right through Ohio,” Sam says, raising his head to look at Dean.

They’ve been doing this too long for Dean to doubt Sam’s skills of Google-fu. “So whatever this thing is… it’s on the move.”

“Maybe it’s smart enough to know not to stay in the same place.”

“So we follow it. Keep heading north and west, slowly, until we get a fix on its pattern.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, hair falling forward into his face as he leans over the laptop again, fingers flowing over the keys. 

“Sam…” Dean reaches for his coffee, throat swallowing convulsively. “Why would people write us like that?”

“Wait. Who? Like what?” Sam asks, frowning.

“The fans. Like _that_.” Dean almost coughs the words, gesturing.

Sam blinks, realization setting in, fingers pausing, face working as he thinks. “I don’t _know_ ,” he says, sounding as baffled as Dean feels.

Dean nods and gets up from the table, handing Sam his cup. “Drink your coffee and find me a monster, bitch.”

*

That afternoon, they have lunch in some no-name diner in the middle of nowhere, Sam nibbling thoughtfully at his chicken as Dean cuts another slice from his Rib-eye. 

Dean pops the steak into his mouth and chews reverently, listening to Sam go on. “I know the thing’s M.O; that should make it easy,” Sam is saying as he forks into his steamed rice. “But…” Sam shrugs, trailing off. 

“Nothing yet,” Dean concludes. “Whatever. You’ll find it. You’re not the Nancy Drew of this duo for nothing.”

Sam huffs out a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “We’re actually more like the Hardy Boys.”

“No, _we’re_ not,” Dean contradicts, carving off another slice of steak as he flicks his eyes up to meet Sam’s. “I’m not lame enough to be a Hardy Boy.”

“You are so _Joe_ ,” Sam mutters, shaking his head.

“See?” Dean asks, pointing his steak knife at Sam as he chews. “You know their names. _Lame_.”

“You’re the one talking about Nancy Drew.”

“Everybody knows Nancy Drew.” Dean shrugs. 

“Most people know the Hardy Boys, too,” Sam counters.

“But who knows their first names, Sam?” Dean asks with a smirk. “Besides _you_ , I mean.”

Sam’s jaw flexes with annoyance, eyes dropping to his plate.

They eat in silence for the next minute or two, and that gives Dean way too much time to think about the Hardy Boys. The Hardy Boys were brothers. Well, Dean’s pretty sure they were brothers anyway, considering they had the same last name. He wonders if anyone ever wrote slash about them.

Dean reaches for his coke and takes a drink, words leaving him without thought as he sets his glass back down on the table. “So… what were the stories like?” 

“The Hardy Boys stories?” Sam asks.

Dean rolls his eyes. “God you are such a geek.”

Sam pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth, and Dean can see the light bulb go on. “You mean… the ones about _us_?” The way Sam emphasizes the word, Dean knows he gets which stories.

“Yeah,” Dean says, utterly absorbed in dipping a French fry into the puddle of ketchup on his plate. 

“How the hell would _I_ know?” Sam snorts, sounding offended.

“Come on, Sam. You’re research boy. You had to read at least _one_.”

“No _way_.”

Dean risks a glance up at Sam. Sam’s flushing pink and desperately looking at everything _but_ Dean. Mostly, he’s staring down at the table with that expression that _screams_ “I’m guilty” at a thousand decibels. 

Dean nods. “Uh huh.”

“You’re _sick_ , Dean,” Sam informs him.

“Yeah? Well at least I wasn’t scouring the internet for stories about--”

“Could we focus on the _case_?”

“You totally read one.”

“Dude. I did _not_ read one.”

“Then how did you know they meant ‘together’?”

“You can pick up a lot from reading a message board, okay?”

Dean narrows his eyes on Sam. Sam can lie dead straight faced with his puppy-dog eyes to anyone else, but Sam’s always been a _terrible_ liar when it comes to lying to Dean. “So you weren’t even a little curious?”

“ _No_ , Dean. You’re the sicko that wants to know what the stories were like.” Sam’s definitely squirming, and he can barely look Dean in the eye. 

“Still not the sicko that read them.”

“We are so not talking about this.”

“Heads up, dude; your guilty face? Subtle as Pamela Anderson’s rack.”

Sam rolls his eyes and lifts his hand, signaling the waitress. “Check.”

The waitress slides the check across the table to Sam, her nails perfectly pink and just long enough to draw blood. But her eyes are riveted on Dean the whole time, looking him up and down.

Dean shoots her a smile, fingers sliding over the back of her hand, tugging the check towards him. “I got that.”

“I’ll just bet you do,” she says, winking at him.

Sam sighs like it’s a fucking Olympic event of sound, tossing back his hair as he pushes up from the table. “I’ll be in the car.”

Dean watches Sam’s back retreat towards the doorway and reaches for his wallet. “Man-period,” Dean confides, leaning close, and she laughs.

“I’ll just get this taken care of, then, sugar,” she says, leveling her blue eyes on him. “Unless there’s anything _else_ you need?”

It’s an obvious invitation, and she’s pretty enough, wide hips and tiny waist and lips that look like they could suck a cock into the next world. Dean glances out the window, watches Sam lean against the Impala, body stiff and tight, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Just the check,” Dean says, handing her the credit card.

“Sure thing, sugar.” The waitress pulls her hand away; grinning wide and bright in that way that Dean recognizes as, ‘Oh, you’re a gay couple’.

Dean thinks about explaining, but it’s really not worth it.

“Thanks,” he grunts, grinding his teeth together so hard that he can feel them creak.

*

They don’t talk, radio filling the silence between them as Dean drives on through the afternoon. Sam’s so annoyed that he doesn’t flinch at anything—not even once at Dean’s cockrock mix tape at ear-splitting volume. Sam just sits in the passenger seat with his brooding and pensive shoulders and face, staring out the window and ignoring the fuck out of Dean _and_ Judas Priest screeching “Turbo Lover.” 

Fine, Dean thinks, turning down the volume. It’s not like _he_ did anything wrong. Sam’s the one reading porn about them for fuck’s sake. 

Porn. About _them_. About them fucking _each other_. Why would anybody—

“I’m not gay,” Dean says.

Sam turns his head and arches a brow at Dean. “Thanks… for the update?” Sam asks, sounding baffled.

“I mean, you, you’re questionable, but I’m _definitely_ not gay. Why would they write me as gay, Sam, huh?” Dean asks, throwing Sam a quick, imploring glance.

Sam rolls his eyes, shifting against the seat. “Dean, our lives are being written into a Gospel by a prophet, and _this_ is what you’re stuck on?”

“Yeah,” Dean allows, looking back at the road as he fidgets in his seat, “that’s pretty weird, too… But come on-- _gay_?”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, looking at Dean like he might’ve lost his mind. “You’re right. That’s _way_ more disturbing than the incest.” Sam puts an emphasis on the last two words that Dean can’t miss the meaning of.

Right. “I was gonna get to that, too,” Dean says, hurrying through the words—because really, he’s been so stuck on the whole gay thing that yeah, he kinda forgot that part. “I mean, we’re _brothers_ , how can they think we’d…” He shakes his head in disbelief spreading his hands palms up across the top of the steering wheel. “But _gay_?”

Sam curls his tongue against the roof of his mouth and shakes his head. “I can’t _believe_ you. The apocalypse is coming, and _this_ is what you’re worried about?”

“Our reputations are at stake, Sammy! If those books are gonna be the Winchester Gospel someday, then _everybody’s_ gonna know about us.”

“…And?” Sam prompts, exasperated with Dean.

Dean holds up a finger. “One trip to Google, Sam. That’s all it would take.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Sam sighs, shaking his head.

“Your _face_ is ridiculous.” Dean hurls the words back without a thought, and really, he could’ve come up with something better than that. 

“Mature, dude. I’m just saying, it could be worse.” Sam looks away, out the window again. “Besides, it’s fanfiction. Everyone knows it isn’t real.”

Sam makes a good point. Dean isn’t sure why it’s bugging him so much. But he’s still pissed about Sam cockblocking him back at the restaurant, so he picks a fight with Sam over his navigational skills instead. They end up hurling stupid insults for the next hour until Sam falls into stony silence, glowering out the windshield.

When they finally stop for the night, Sam opens the door and gets out immediately.

“Where are you going?” Dean yells as the door slams shut.

“Out,” Sam yells back, face angry through the glass as he turns. “Don’t wait up,” he snarls.

Which means Sam will be gone until _late_. Dean throws up his hands. “Great. Another night where I have no idea where you are or what you’re doing,” he mutters, opening the door.

*

Dean gets all their stuff into the motel room and finally settles onto the bed, TV remote in his hand. He’s still pissed about Sam taking off like that, even if Dean was kind of being a prick. He’s got reasons to be a prick, which Sam should totally understand. Besides the books and the apocalypse, there’s the fanfic stories—which Sam _obviously_ read—with people writing him as gay for his brother.

It pisses him off even more that Sam’s right. It’s fiction. Not that Sam was willing to tell Dean what he read, though, and if it was no big deal like Sam was acting in the car, then why couldn’t he share?

Dean eyes Sam’s laptop bag sitting innocuously at the foot of the other queen bed.

Maybe he should... No. No reason to go there.

He looks at the dark, blank TV screen, finger hovering over the cable power button. He hesitates, eyes sliding back over towards the laptop bag.

Maybe he could get it off his mind if he just…

No. It’s sick and perverted.

But it’s just fiction.

It couldn’t really do any harm, right? Maybe leave some permanent mental scars, but hey, he’s had more than his share of those, and they’ve gotta be worse than this. Nothing could be worse than Hell.

He eyes the bag for a few minutes longer, finally sighs and tosses the remote on the bed as he gets up.

It doesn’t take him long to find the message board in the browser history once he gets it set up. There are all kinds of conversation threads, and he scrolls down the list until he sees one titled “Fanfiction” and clicks on it.

_samsgirl087: Hi! I’m new to this fandom and looking for some good Sam/Dean stories. Can anyone point me in the right direction?_

There are dozens of replies, all of them with lots of links.

Dean’s finger hesitates over the mouse button. 

He feels like an idiot.

Sam already did it.

He glances guiltily around the empty motel room, takes a deep breath and clicks.

LiveJournal. Huh. He’s never been here before. He scrolls down to where the story starts.

_“Never thought we’d get to wear these penguin suits again,” Dean says as they exit the Impala, car doors slamming shut. And Sam might never say so out loud, but he’s kind of glad they got a second wear out of them, because god **damn** Dean looks good in a tux._

Okay. This is just, _beyond_ weird. This is fucking Bizarro world on crack. It’s like the laundry mat all over again. He’s reading fictional stories about real stories about his real life. It’s… surreal.

Sam thinks he looks good in a tux? Wait, no, this isn’t the actual books.

God he’s confused.

_It's New Years and they're together. And he's drunk, giddy bubbles rushing to his brain, making him tug and pull at Dean, fingers popping the buttons on crisp white linen as he wrestles Dean down to the mattress and pins him there. Laughing as Dean fights back and they slip and slide against each other, mouths hot and tongues diving deep, crisp taste like apples beneath the bite of champagne._

What? Okay. Even if they _were_ fucking, do people really think it could ever be like this? First of all; Sam pinning him? Not fucking likely. Second; like they could ever act like this was _normal_?

Dean keeps reading, eyes getting wider and wider. He can’t do this. He can’t. But it’s like a train wreck; completely fucking _horrible_ but he can’t look away.

_“Christ’s sake, Sam. **Do** it.”_

Wait. Sam’s… _Sam_ is the one who’s… _what_?

_“I’m gonna stripe this little ass all red, Dean. Mark it and make it mine.”_

Dean puts a hand over his mouth. Okay. No. He really _can’t_ do this. Not only is he reading about him and Sam _having sex_ but Sam is _spanking him_? _Sam_. is spanking. _Him_.

Sam read at least one. If Sam can do it, so can he. Dean can’t _wait_ to make Sam tell him what he read.

_“I’m gonna make it burn ‘til it’s sweet, ‘til you can’t take anymore, and then fuck you while it’s all still tender.”_

Dean busts out laughing. He can’t help it. He’s _trying_ to imagine Sam _ever_ saying something like that to him, let alone carrying it out. Besides, _Sam_ fucking _him_? Did this writer even read the real books about them? 

He feels a little better after laughing, like maybe he can actually handle this without being completely horrified. It’s so far removed from reality that it’s almost bearable.

The feeling lasts a few seconds, until he gets to the part where Sam’s got his tongue in Dean’s—Oh. That. That’s… just. He squints at the words, hurrying through them. 

_“Jesus Christ, Sam,” Dean gasps. “If you don’t fuck me soon I’m gonna turn around and kick your ass on principle.”_

At least they didn’t make him a _total_ girl. 

_Sam chuckles into his brother’s body, gives one last dive of his tongue and then pulls free. Surveys his work and thinks it’ll be a miracle if Dean can even sit down soon, much less kick Sam’s ass. And oh, wouldn’t that be fun. Especially if Sam slid a plug inside Dean and made him keep it in all day, heavy weight of it pressing against his sweet spot, making him shift from one foot to the other, cock hard, toy keeping his tight hole open--_

Dean flinches back from the screen. What? Okay, first, TWISTED. Second. No fucking _way_ Dean would ever let Sam do that shit to him. Even if he was the bottom, which he is totally _not_. Or, wouldn’t be, if he and Sam were actually… 

He can’t believe he’s even thinking about this. 

He sits forward in the chair and hurries through the rest of the story. The fucking is actually easier to read than the tongue thing, even if it is graphic and Dean’s a complete, pansy bottom. 

_That_ sucked, he thinks, clicking the back button.

He just read about having sex with his brother. 

People think he takes it up the ass from Sam? _Seriously_?

Writer’s _got_ to be a Samgirl or something.

He clicks on another link.

Three hours later, Dean is slumped over, chin in his hand, eyes burning and blurring the words on the screen as Sam fucks him _again_ , for the fifty-sixth time. All their fans seem to think Sam has an enormous cock and fucks Dean to death with it at every opportunity. He can’t even begin to count the various perverted things the writers have had Sam do to him, including one very special story he stumbled across where he gets fucked with every goddamned vegetable in the garden of their post-hunting perfect little domestic house complete with white picket fences, nine-to-five jobs and supportive neighbors. That’s without even getting into the story where Dean got hurt while hunting a ghost and Sam saved Dean’s life with his magically healing, _huge_ cock—something about “the jizz of baby cherubs”. 

He has a splitting headache, and he’s pretty fucking sure he’s never going to be able to look at his brother again without thinking about sex.

He wonders if Castiel has any idea that the Winchester Gospel set _this_ in motion. He’d kinda love to see Cas’s face, if he found out.

Dean considers for a moment, rubbing a hand across his chin and smirking.

Yeah. That’s a _great_ idea—introduce the _angel_ to the Book of Incest.

He _really_ needs to go to bed.

He erases the entire browser history, every cookie, every single fucking button he can click to delete _anything_ and considers deleting firefox.exe just to be really sure, before he crawls into bed.

*

Sam gets in about an hour later, motel door creaking open on rusted hinges. Sam tries to be quiet, and Dean pretends to sleep through it all.

*

In the morning, Dean wakes up tired and cranky with a need for coffee so bad he’s ready to kick the tall, lanky guy’s ass behind the counter at Starbuck’s when he asks Dean to repeat his order a second time. 

When he shoves the steaming cup into Sam’s hand back at the motel room, Dean does it without looking at him, sailing past to the bathroom with his own cup in hand.

Sam joins him in the middle of shaving a few minutes later, picking up his toothbrush and shooting Dean one of _those_ looks as he reaches for the uncapped toothpaste.

Dean bumps Sam’s elbow as he rinses the razor in the sink, and Sam shoots him another patented bitchface look. Dean ignores it, bumping Sam’s elbow again as he raises his arm.

Sam moves two inches to the left and Dean feels a slow burn of satisfaction rise in his chest as he strokes the razor up the line of his throat.

After all, if he’s gotta be the one to take it up the ass in fanfic all the time, the least Sam can do is show him a little bit of respect.

*

Over breakfast, Dean contemplates Sam’s face as he shovels down his eggs. Dean looks for a while, but he doesn’t see a wide, pretty mouth, or high cheek bones or hazel eyes slanted like a fox’s. Sam’s complexion isn’t smooth or flawless, and he certainly doesn’t _glow_. Yeah, he’s got big, broad shoulders and rippling muscles and freakishly large hands, but mostly, he’s just Sam; Dean’s stupidly tall, floppy-haired, gigantic dork of a little brother.

Sam finally drops his fork on his plate and glances up at Dean with irritation. “Dude. _What?_ ”

Dean shrugs, nonchalant, and reaches for his mug of coffee. “Nothing,” he says, keeping his expression the same. “Just wondering if you found out anything about the case last night.”

Sam hesitates for a second, and then he picks up his fork and looks down at his plate. “There’s a book that might help…” he says, spearing eggs on his fork. “I need to check the local library.”

That’s… _vague_. Sam’s not being completely honest with him. Dean’s tempted to ask for details on what exactly Sam needs to look up. But Dean’s got a little errand of his own he can run at the library. “Okay, Nancy Drew,” he says instead. “We’ll hit it on the way out of town.” 

*

The library isn’t very busy this early on a Tuesday, just a few college kids studying and perusing the aisles of books. Sam peels off towards the rows of books, and Dean heads for the row of computers near the center of the building. He settles himself in front of one of the monitors, glancing over his shoulder once to make sure Sam’s disappeared into the non-fiction section.

He pulls up a browser and types in the address to LiveJournal.com, fingers hovering over the keys before he finally types “Supernatural” into LiveJournal’s search field. 

He finds so many journals he doesn’t even know how to begin. Finally he uses the pull down menu and does his search in a couple places. A search of ‘communities’ finally turns up some stuff that looks useful.

Supernaturalfic is first on the list, and he clicks on it.

It’s the _motherlode_ of Sam/Dean fic. He doesn’t have a lot of time to sort through it before Sam gets back, though, so he clicks on the first ten or so, skimming them. Some of it is _really_ bad—like jizz of baby cherubs bad—but there’s some of it that’s… well… at least it’s literate and there’s no vegetables involved. He picks a couple stories, copies and pastes them into a Word document, then eyes the printers across the room.

There’s a cute, gothic chick standing by them, face pensive as she waits for her pages to print. Cute, but a little too in love with her pain for Dean’s tastes. Dean waits until she gathers the stack of papers, her short bob-cut flashing short-cropped blond beneath the black as she walks away, skirt swishing around her knees. He waits another minute to make sure no one else is headed for the printers, and hits the “print” button.

He practically runs to the printers, planting himself in front of the one that starts to spit pages.

He ends up with seven pages of short Sam/Dean stories. He folds them all together as he glances around to see if anyone’s watching him, and then tucks them into his back pocket. 

He sits back down at the computer, surfing for another twenty minutes or so. There’s no access to porn in the library and he’s not reading any more fanfic when Sam could come walking up behind him any minute, and after twenty minutes he’s so bored and antsy that he gives up and goes looking for Sam.

Sam’s nowhere to be found in the non-fiction section. Dean frowns and keeps walking to the fiction section. He finds Sam kneeling on one knee in an aisle all by himself, thin paperback open in his hands. He looks engrossed in whatever he’s reading, book propped against his raised knee. Dean walks down the aisle and it’s not until halfway that Sam hears him coming and startles, looking guilty as he shuts the book.

“Supernatural?” Dean asks, looking at the section of books Sam’s kneeling in front of.

“They… didn’t have the book I was looking for.” Sam almost stumbles over the words, shoving the novel back onto the shelf.

“So you thought you’d read some more adventures of Sam and Dean we already lived through once?”

“I wondered if they had any of them, so I came over to look, and they have a few that we don’t.” Sam’s looking up at Dean like that’s supposed to mean something. Dean raises his brows and stares back at Sam expectantly.

“I was thinking,” Sam goes on, looking down at the shelf again. “Maybe we should keep them around for reference. I mean, books tend to be written with themes and foreshadowing. Who knows? There could be clues in there about things that haven’t happened yet.”

It sounds dubious to Dean—even Chuck didn’t know where the story was going. But since he’s standing there with seven pages of the Incest Gospel in his back pocket, he figures he’s not exactly in a position to protest dubious ideas. “Couldn’t hurt to have them around, I guess,” Dean shrugs. 

Sam’s eyes widen like he’s surprised Dean’s giving in so easily. Dean avoids the look, kneeling down beside Sam and hunching over the bottom shelf. They push eight books inside their coats and zip them up.

Dean cuts Sam a sideways glance as he zips his jacket. “You think Chuck’s writing about us stealing books about ourselves right now?”

“Probably,” Sam nods, zipping his coat, too.

“This is just weird,” Dean says, standing up. 

“Yeah.”

*

They drive north and slightly west at a leisurely pace for most of the day. Sam’s practically dozing in the passenger seat, mid-afternoon sun beating down when Dean pushes in mix-tape #3. “Highway Star” pours out over the speakers, and Dean sits back in the seat, satisfied.

That’s when it occurs to him, apropos of nothing, that Chuck doesn’t just know about the stolen books—he probably also knows every single thing Dean read last night.

“Christ,” he mutters under his breath, jolt of realization running through him like adrenaline. His hand jerks on the wheel, and he steadies himself, ignoring the way Sam stirs and cuts him a half-lidded look.

“Squirrel,” Dean lies, his voice gruff.

They’ve got miles to go before they stop for the night and there’s no way Dean can do anything about it with Sam sitting right next to him. He drives until the sun sinks below the horizon, and then an extra half an hour just for appearances before he pulls off at an exit with a lodging sign in Mohall, North Dakota.

The motel siding is painted the most hideous shade of green Dean’s ever seen—and that’s saying something. The rooms aren’t any prettier, but at least they’re clean, even if there’s a lingering scent of mustiness lurking underneath. He throws his stuff down next to his bed and watches Sam settle in until Sam looks comfortable behind his laptop screen.

“I’m gonna head out and get some food. Be right back.”

Sam glances up and nods just before Dean shuts the door. Dean walks around the front end of the car and slides behind the wheel of the Impala, pulling his phone from his pocket as he backs out of the parking space.

The phone rings four times before Chuck picks up. “Hey, Chuck, it’s Dean.”

“I know. I just finished writing this scene—I mean, the part where this happens.”

Dean pauses, absorbing that as he turns onto the main road. “So you already know what I’m going to say?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s disturbing.”

“I really agree.” Chuck hesitates for a second, then adds, “Dean… don’t… don’t worry about it, okay? It’s just… curiosity. I understand.”

Dean feels like a stupid teenager caught with his pants down. This _sucks_. “Yeah, dude. Thanks for the therapy session.”

“I mean... I’ve read some of the stories, too… um… because I thought people were writing about _my_ characters, and that’s… kind of flattering--”

“You _knew_ about this? And you didn’t tell us?” Dean demands as he changes lanes.

“I already knew that you knew, remember? You and Sam had that whole conversation in the motel about slash--”

Dean winces against the word, slowing down for a red light. “Right, okay. So what I read last night, that’s--”

“Not going in the book, right.”

Dean scowls at the phone as he comes to a stop. “This is creepy enough without you finishing my sentences.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” Chuck says, tittering nervously. The sound fades out as Dean scowls at the phone even harder. “I mean, I… Sorry.”

Dean closes his eyes and presses a hand to his forehead. “You know, this whole fucking thing gives me a major headache.”

“Try drinking,” Chuck advises.

*

The line at the drive-through at Wendy’s is nearly wrapped around the building. The inside is predictably almost empty, and Dean slides the car into a parking spot. He gets out of the car under the yellow glow of the sign and glances up, taking in red pigtails and freckles. Personally, Dean’s always thought Wendy is kinda hot, in that sexy librarian way. He’d mentioned it to Sam once, and Sam had stared at Dean, appalled as he said, _“Yeah, Dean. She’s also **twelve** ”_, and rolled his eyes so hard Dean thought Sam might snap his own neck. Which… was a good point he never thought about before and really wishes Sam had never made, because he can’t ever look at her the same way again.

He gives his order at the counter and flirts a little with the girl behind it, who finally cracks her serious ‘just the burgers, sir’ veneer and gives him a smile. He throws in a wink as he asks for extra ketchup and she puts two handfuls into the bag, which is _perfect_.

He’s almost to the Impala, keys in one hand, greasy bag that smells like heaven in his other hand, when someone behind him says,

“Dean.”

Dean spins—he would’ve sworn there was no one else in the parking lot—dropping the bag of food to the ground, fingers closing into a fist—

Castiel’s standing there; frowning slightly, like Dean’s response confuses him.

Dean sighs, bending down and snatching up the food. “I’m gonna put a bell on you,” Dean threatens as he rises, pointing at Castiel, keys jingling. 

“Lilith’s vanished,” Castiel begins, as if Dean hadn’t even spoken. “No one knows what happened to her after the last time you saw her. There are even rumors that you killed her,” Castiel says, eyeing Dean. “You didn’t, though.”

“No.”

Castiel nods like he expected the answer, and then he turns and starts to pace. “No one knows what her disappearance means.”

“Or if and when she’ll turn up again.” Dean hesitates, thinking about that as he takes the last few steps towards the Impala and turns around, leaning back against the trunk. Parking lot asphalt has never seemed so interesting as he adds, “Did you try Chuck?”

“He hasn’t seen anything.” 

“So we’ve got zip?” Dean asks, looking back up at Castiel.

Castiel frowns. “Nothing. I even tried consulting the story, to see if there were indications of where she might have gone… but there was nothing.”

Dean’s already given this as much thought as he plans on giving it. If he’s gonna get any answers, it’s gonna be here—and if he doesn’t, well, it’ll still be fun. “You were reading the Winchester Gospel?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Castiel nods. 

“You know Chuck’s not the only one writing about us?”

Castiel’s brows draw together, his eyes closing on Dean intently. “He was chosen. Who else would write about you?”

Dean sets the bag on the trunk and then reaches for his back pocket. He pulls the pages out, unfolding them as he clears his throat. He smoothes them out and then hands them to Castiel.

Castiel takes them, still frowning as he shakes out the papers in his hand. “The minute Sam turns twenty-three, he’s buried balls deep inside of Dean, licking the last remnants of his birthday cake out of his brother’s mouth.” 

Castiel stops and goes very still. He shifts his weight back and forth between his feet and he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the page even though the look on his face reminds Dean of the time he ate too many Doritos and decided to polish them off with orange juice. A mistake so serious that he’s added it to his very short list of rules _not_ to live by.

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence, and Dean gloats, just a little. 

“Yeah. So tell me. Did God see _that_ coming?”

“This is… this is fiction,” Castiel says, lifting the pages towards Dean.

“The people reading your “Gospel” wrote this.”

“It’s fiction,” Castiel says again, like he’s got one brain cell and it’s stuck on stupefied.

“But it’s being written. This is what the readers are getting from ‘our story’.” Dean shakes his head, tonguing against the inside of his cheek. He’s enjoying this way too much—but why not? If he has to suffer through it, Castiel should, too. “I gotta know… Was _that_ in the ‘big plan’? ‘Cause I’m thinking… God? Not gonna approve of the incest version of the Gospel.”

Castiel is speechless, and yeah, Dean’s loving the fuck out of this.

“It _has_ to be part of God’s _plan_ , right? He wants the people who read our stories to think this?”

Castiel opens his mouth then closes it again, looking between Dean and the pages. “Well… but… the… the children of Adam and Eve procreated with each other to produce offspring,” he says, stumbling over the words. “But then…” he stops, hand with the pages dropping to his side, frowning like he’s just encountered a very difficult math problem.

“But then there’s that whole pesky Kingdom of Sodom thing,” Dean adds.

“Yes,” Castiel nods emphatically.

“So as long as it makes babies… incest is _okay_?” Dean can hardly keep the smirk from his face, mouth twitching. 

Castiel’s eyes meet his, filled with confusion. “I… may… need to take a meeting on this.”

Castiel vanishes, leaving Dean feeling _incredibly_ satisfied.

*

Dean’s enjoying his mood so much that he waits until he and Sam are both almost done eating before he tells Sam about Lilith disappearing.

Sam’s face goes pensive as he wipes a napkin across his chin, and then his whole expression turns hard as he balls the napkin up. “She’s up to something.”

“You said she was running scared,” Dean counters. “Maybe she decided the whole thing wasn’t worth it.”

“No.” Sam shakes his head. “She’ll be back.”

Of course she will. Dean doesn’t even know what he was doing entertaining the idea they might get out of this easy. He knows better than that. Nothing’s ever easy. “You still think you can take her?” he asks, voice low.

“I know I can.”

“Using your powers.”

“It’s the only way.” There was a time not too long ago when Sam might have sounded sorry about that; now he’s just matter of fact.

Dean crumples the empty cheeseburger wrapper in his hands and purses his lips, thinking for a long time before he speaks again. “How are you getting more powerful, Sam?”

Sam’s mouth thins and he looks away. “Practice.”

He doesn’t even bother to point out that admitting that means Sam’s been lying to Dean all along. Dean already knew Sam was. Dean tosses the wrapper into the empty bag. “With Ruby?” Dean tries to keep the anger from his voice, but it’s damned hard.

Sam flinches, then tenses and doesn’t answer.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“It’s the only way we can win, Dean.”

Dean’s so tired of having this argument with Sam. He rubs his hands clean with a couple of napkins, focusing intently on cleaning the grease from under the edges of his nails. “There’s got to be another way, Sam. What about the angels? You don’t think they’ll help us?”

He can hear Sam shrug. “Maybe. But I don’t think they will.”

“Cas will, if he can.”

“ **‘If’** isn’t good enough.”

Dean wishes he could argue with that. But he can’t, and there’s nothing he hasn’t already said to Sam about this. He decides to go to bed instead.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

They decide to stay put the next day and see what Sam can turn up on the case. Dean’s restless by noon, drumming his fingers against his leg in time to the music from the alarm clock radio as he flips through a magazine. Sam gives up researching about an hour later and falls on his own bed. Dean sees him reach for the book on the nightstand, the one he started reading last night. The cover reads _Croatoan_ , and Dean wonders why Sam picked that one.

“You wanna go get some lunch?”

Sam tosses the book aside like he’s almost grateful. “Yeah.”

*

They have lunch at the local pool hall, which is mostly deserted this time of afternoon on a workday. They eat and have a couple beers and play a few games of pool, and it almost feels... normal. 

*

They order Chinese for dinner at Sam’s urging, and Sam eats his dinner over his laptop while he does… whatever Sam does.

Dean watches part of the original _Howling_ while he eats, and by the time he’s going back for seconds, Sam gets up from behind the laptop and stretches. Sam walks over and sits on the end of the other bed, looking at the action on the TV screen. “Don’t you ever get tired of watching this stuff?” he asks after a while. “I mean, we live with it every day. Isn’t that enough?”

“That’s kinda what I like about it.” He realizes then that he’s watching a goddamned werewolf movie, and that’s probably not Sam’s favorite kind of monster movie these days. Dean picks up the remote and tosses it to Sam as he gets up from the bed. “You pick something. I’m gonna go get us something to drink.” 

Sam looks at the remote, and then back at Dean like Dean’s lost his mind, and Dean blatantly ignores him.

“Be right back,” he tells Sam as he opens the motel door, chill, early spring night air hitting him.

The light over the soda machine is flickering, just the slightest bit as Dean walks down the sidewalk outside the motel. He stops, narrowing his eyes on it, and then turns in a slow circle, looking out across the parking lot, eyeing the door and window to the room he’s standing outside of, waiting. 

The light continues to flicker with no further effects, but he waits another full minute. Sometimes it's a faulty light bulb; sometimes it's a demon. The difference can be life altering. 

When nothing else happens, he finally moves, glancing over his shoulder.

Nothing. He's psyching himself out. Faulty light bulb. Fucking _things_. You'd think people could make better light bulbs by now, much as they need them.

Dean slides four dollar bills into the soda machine and pushes the ‘Sunkist’ button twice. He grabs the plastic bottles between the fingers of his left hand and turns back towards the room—

Castiel almost gets to experience what it’s like to ‘feel all orange inside’-- _and_ out--right between the fucking eyes.

“A _little_ more warning, dude,” Dean snaps, lowering his hand.

Castiel has the sense to at least look a little chagrined. “I keep forgetting that you don’t sense me.”

“Yeah, well, I’m taking the short bus to destiny. Deal.” 

Castiel nods, like that makes sense, lights under the eaves of the motel highlighting his features. “I read… what you gave me,” Castiel offers like an apology.

“You… read it? All?”

“I did.” Words given quickly and matter-of-fact--like he’d rather not think about that. “I… meditated on your question… and Dean, you should know…” Castiel trails off, staring into the middle distance with his intense eyes.

“What?” Dean demands.

Castiel’s eyes snap to his, then away again, hands in the pockets of his trench coat. “If the masses are seeing this… between the two of you… then they’re seeing something that already exists, interpreted through the texts.”

Dean stares at Castiel for a long moment. He curls his tongue against the inside of his mouth and nods, thinking that over. “ _What_?”

“I’m not saying it’s truth.” Castiel hesitates, considering. “But there’s _something_ being interpreted from the text.”

“Interpreted… So we’re not _really_ gay and incestuous—we’re just drawn that way.”

“I don’t have that answer for you, Dean.”

That wasn’t the answer Dean was expecting. “Wait,” Dean says, sitting down on the bench beside the vending machine. “You’re an angel of the _Lord_. And you’re telling me that this… _message_ that people are seeing, might be what God wants them to see? _Really_? God says ‘Gay incest, yay!’?”

“I’m saying nothing of the kind,” Castiel returns, sounding almost sympathetic. “I’m saying that God wants the tale told as it is. It is not God’s will for the masses to interpret anything. But if they are… then the roots of that interpretation are in the books.”

“In other words, it’s not God’s fault, it’s ours?”

Castiel nods once, still not quite meeting Dean’s eyes. “Whatever the case, Dean, it doesn’t change your destiny.”

Dean’s still trying to figure out what all that means when Castiel vanishes.

*

On the way back to the room, Dean opens the trunk of the car and digs through it until he finds the first novel in the series. He brings it inside with him and finds Sam stretched out on the bed in his sweatpants, watching some old black and white movie. Sam yawns and stretches, rolling over to look at Dean—and then he stops, seeing what Dean’s got in his hand.

“You’re… reading?”

“Why not? Maybe you’re right. Maybe there is something in here that could be useful.” Dean tosses Sam one of the sodas in his other hand and Sam catches it. He arches a brow at Dean and then shrugs, and that’s that.

Dean pulls off his jacket, throwing it on the bed as he stretches out on it, eyeing Sam watching TV before he opens the book and starts to read.

He’d only been skimming before—except for a few parts here and there--seeing how well the stories fit with what happened to them. He’s looking for something completely different now. The beginning scene with mom and dad is too hard to take, so he skips it and starts with Jess in some kind of hot ass nurse outfit, putting on earrings as she walks out of the bathroom. It’s terrible, he thinks, how that part of the story is only _slightly_ less disturbing than the beginning. He really doesn’t wanna imagine Jess like that.

But soon, he loses himself in the detail, and it’s almost like reliving the experience; breaking into Sam’s apartment, the wrestling on the floor.

_Sam panted, chest heaving against Dean’s, muscles still straining._

_“Whoa, easy, tiger.”_

_“Dean? You scared the crap out of me.”_

_“That’s ‘cause you’re out of practice.”_

_Sam lunged, fingers seizing Dean tight and hard, throwing Dean over onto his back, Sam’s long, lean body holding him against the carpet. He’d gotten stronger, Dean thought. Bodies pressed together in the darkness, Sam stared into Dean’s eyes with defiance, muscles flexing, and just for a split second, Dean felt it; a spark of the connection that’s always been there between them._

Okay. Maybe. If you squint real hard and look at it sideways and don’t realize Dean’s talking about a completely _brotherly_ connection. Maybe.

_Dean shoved Sam violently against the bridge, impact of Sam’s body shuddering through his arms. His face was close to Sam’s, electric undercurrent crackling between them in the air. The silence between them was charged with meaningful looks—and then Dean heard something that made him let go and turn around._

That’s a little… but, still. Not really… so bad. There were… reasons for that. All the history between them, the way Sam never really understood about mom because he didn’t know her. How Sam had left them to go to college, the argument they’d had before Sam finally left. How much Sam hated this life. There are all kinds of reasons for that… undercurrent to be there. His eyes click to Sam again, and he wonders if Sam’s even still awake, TV murmuring with low dialogue. He turns the page and keeps reading. 

He reads for a while longer, until Sam’s definitely out cold and Dean’s eyes are starting to fall shut on the words. He’s maybe a quarter of the way through the book, and besides reliving the case and the pain of seeing Sam again after two years, he’s not finding much. He’s never going to make it through 66 books of reliving all the pain that’s even worse. He needs… 

He sighs, closing the book and laying it on his chest.

He needs… the Cliff Notes version of _Supernatural_ ’s… “slash” moments.

Once he gets past admitting that, the answer’s pretty clear.

The laptop’s already out and set up on the dining table, which makes it easy for Dean to creep out of bed and slide into a chair, wincing at the loud click the laptop makes when it opens. Dim white light fills the room, and Dean risks a glance at Sam.

Sam’s still fast asleep, sprawled out on the bed, one of his socks rucked down around his ankle below the hem of his sweatpants, foot hanging off the edge of the bed, probably drooling into the pillow.

Ten minutes later Dean’s got a new Gmail address and a log in on the message board. He finds a Sam/Dean thread and types his message into the box, only pausing for a second before he hits “post”.

_sexonwheels67: Sexiest Sam/Dean moments. Which books and what scenes?_

The word “sexiest” makes him flinch, but hey, he’s got to speak their language.

He thinks for a moment, debating the screen, and clicks the cursor into the Google toolbar. Out of curiosity, he does a search for Supernatural, “Sam/Dean scenes” and “book”.

The resulting search turns up someone else’s LiveJournal near the top of the list.

Dean can’t believe he never heard of a LiveJournal before a few days ago. This place is better than a _Supernatural_ hotline.

_Apr. 8th, 2009_

_SPN Fans: Your Assignment, Should You Choose…_

_Specifically the Sam/Dean fans. I need to know; what do you consider the most Sam/Dean book EVER out of the whole series? And what moments in that book make it the Sam/Deanest ever? Be as detailed as you like with your examples, include charts and graphs if desired._

_For extra credit, include more than one book ;)_

_It's for very important research, promise :) You will be rewarded by the end result ((I think, anyway))._

_Pretty PLEASE?_

_Mood: curious_

There’s a bunch of little buttons at the bottom of the post, and Dean hovers over all of them. One of them lights up with a tag that says “Track this” and Dean clicks it, entering his email address to catch every reply that comes through. 

Dean glances over at Sam, and Sam’s still clutching the pillow, face buried in it the way Dean likes to bury his face between—

Sam lifts his face in the wan light of the laptop, looking right at him. Dean’s heart freezes in his chest, and suddenly he’s clicking everywhere on the screen, trying to close the window. 

“Dude,” Sam admonishes. “You are _not_ looking at porn while I’m in the room?”

Dean blinks, trying to comprehend the words, and then they register. “No,” Dean says, standing up from the chair. “I’ll…” Dean trails off, picking up the laptop and making a strategic retreat to the bathroom.

“Dean,” Sam calls after him, disgusted. “With my _laptop_?”

Sam sighs and shakes his head, face flopping back into the pillow as Dean closes the door.

Dean turns around and leans his back against the door, rolling his eyes. Jesus fucking _Christ_.

This is _ridiculous_. He’s so disgusted with himself. He can’t even believe it.

He should have thought of the bathroom _first_.

Dean shakes his head and lets out a breath, setting the laptop down on the sink. He erases the browser history and cookies, closes the browser and then waits a few more minutes before he closes it and tiptoes back out into the room. He puts the laptop back on the table and crawls between the sheets of his bed.

Sam doesn’t move a muscle.

*

Dean wakes up around eight o’clock, throwing back the covers and heading for the bathroom. He unzips his jeans, standing in front of the toilet. He’s right in the middle of taking a piss when the door pushes open.

He cuts his eyes over his shoulder at Sam.

“I’ll go get breakfast,” Sam says, retreating.

“McDonald’s—bacon, egg and cheese biscuits, Sam,” Dean calls after him, and Sam grunts an affirmative, sound of the car keys jangling outside in the room. “And coffee,” he yells.

Dean shakes off and flushes, moving to the sink, washing his hands and eyeing the razor as his next stop.

Except… he’s got a few minutes alone.

Dean thinks maybe at most he’ll have a couple replies, if anything at all. His waits for Gmail to load, tapping a finger against the mouse and wishing Sam had gotten them coffee first.

Dean stops, blinking as the screen loads. His inbox is full of bolded messages. _1 - 50 of 63_ the words at the bottom of the emails read.

 _Sixty-three?_ , he mouths, staring at the screen in disbelief.

As he watches, the screen blinks and another reply falls into his inbox.

He clicks on that one and can’t make it through the tangle of conversation. He tries the next one and has the same problem. He finally clicks back to _Oldest_ , and clicks on the first one there.

This one repeats his original message back at him, first reply just under the text. 

There’re 43 replies in this email alone.

“This is a _cult_ following?” he asks aloud, eyes scanning down to the first reply.

_sophie_448: Pilot. Because I started shipping them the second I read it. I had heard of Sam/Dean online before I read the books and I swore I wouldn't get sucked in. After I finished the first novel, abandon hope all ye who enter here. Dean breaking into Sam's apartment with the fighting and the TENSION and OMG. Dean shoving Sam up against the side of the bridge? Possibly my favorite reinterpretation of the text: See, the woman in white is not supposed to be able to hurt a man who hasn't been unfaithful, yet with Sam she shoves her fingers in his chest and says "you will be." My fanon? Sam is being unfaithful to DEAN._

Wrestling. Bridge. Dean thinks, stroking his cheek, fingers playing over the stubble. Huh. He could write that off to wishful thinking… but that last part… Sophie’s _right_ , whoever she is. Sam hadn’t even _thought_ about being unfaithful to Jess. He knows that from reading the scene in the book. And yet the woman in white was able to hurt Sam?

Well, the woman in white _did_ say “you will be”, like it hadn’t happened yet, so … Dean abandons that thread and clicks on the next email in the line.

This is the LiveJournal post he decided to track. It’s got 32 replies all by itself. He rereads quickly through the post and then reads the first reply.

_So, okay, I know this is a totally unpopular view but I DON'T CAAAAAAAAAARE but the book that completely hooked me into the incest is ‘Pilot’. Really and truly, I was in from RIGHT THEN. That's not even getting into the slammy!Dean bridge scene, which... GUH. A thousand times over and a thousand times again, slammy!Dean is my favorite Dean and I learned it from ~~you~~ Pilot! His FACE and his EYES and the lingering. So much slash. SPN was my personal introduction to slashing ANYTHING but it was all over right then._

The bridge again. Huh. And… Slammy!Dean? Is her favorite Dean… and she learned it from…

Dean clicks on the comment reply link in the email and scrolls back up the page.

There’s a picture of ‘Sam and Dean’ from the cover of one of the books at the top of the page. _nyxocity_ is the person’s user name, and there’s a convenient link on the left that reads “Nyx’s Supernatural Fanfiction”. There are a lot of stories behind the link. Most of them read as Sam/Dean, but there’s also Dean/Nancy (which makes him wince a little), and Dean/Jess (which makes him wince even _harder_ ).

He scrolls down a bit… and the list of stories goes on and _on_. Does this girl even _have_ a life?

He’s still questioning that as he hears the Impala turn into the parking lot of the motel.

He closes the tab, clicks to his Gmail window and types the first thing he can come up with into the Google toolbar.

“Dean,” Sam says, his face pained as the door falls shut behind him. “You’re not.”

“No,” Dean says, looking up with a smug smile. “I’m not. I’m doing _research_.” Let Sam chew on that.

Sam frowns at him skeptically and walks over, setting the McDonald’s bag down on the table. He moves in close behind Dean, peering over Dean’s shoulder—pushy bitch—and Dean glances away from the screen, eyes rolling up and to the side. Dammit.

“‘Vacationing spots for demons’?,” Sam cuts his eyes sideways at Dean, the look in them saying plainly that he thinks Dean’s finally lost his mind completely. “That’s what you’re researching?”

It’s not like Dean had much time to come up with anything better. “Yeah. Lilith’s MIA.” Dean shrugs, trying for nonchalant. “You never know, Sam. Maybe she headed for Tijuana for some serious Miller time after what happened.”

“Tijuana?” Sam asks, turning to look at Dean full on, brows climbing so high into his hair Dean can’t even see them anymore.

“Why not? Drink some quality tequila, see the sights--”

“Take in a donkey show or two?” Sam adds, eyes getting even wider and more incredulous. 

Dean nudges Sam’s shoulder and grins like Sam gets exactly what he’s talking about. “Right? I mean… _donkey show_ , come on.” Dean spreads his hands, looking at Sam like it’s the most natural conclusion in the world. “Even demons gotta enjoy a good donkey show once in a while, right?”

“Ooookay,” Sam says, backing away from the screen. 

“They don’t have those in Hell,” Dean yells over his shoulder as Sam disappears into the bathroom.

*

Dean ends up with a list of books and scenes to look at. _Croatoan_ and _Playthings_ seem to tie for the top two “slashiest”, followed closely by _Mystery Spot_ , and then _Pilot_ and _All Hell Breaks Loose, Part 2_.

They don’t own _All Hell Breaks Loose_ , parts one or two. Even if they did, he’d never read them. _Playthings_ wins out because Dean’s not sure he can stand reading anything else.

_Dean pushed Sam down against the bed, but Sam refused to lay down. Sam sat down and pushed back, body rising up fierce, fingers curling in Dean’s jacket, pulling him even closer. Dean could feel his brother's fingertips clutching at his chest, could feel Sam’s breath against his face, the bitter smell of alcohol wafting on the air. Sam’s eyes were desperate, almost panicked._

_“No, please. Dean, you're the only one who can do it. Promise.”_

_The look on Sam’s face threatened to shatter Dean. “Don't ask that of me.” Dean’s heart lurched as he stared deep into Sam’s eyes._

_“Dean, please. You have to promise me.” Sam’s eyes were intent, needing. Dean had years of conditioning to steel him against that look, but it still took him by surprise every time._

_Dean knew he would tell Sam whatever he needed to make him happy. That was what Dean always did; what he’ll always do. The words fell easily to Dean’s lips, even though they weren’t what he felt in his heart._

_“I promise.”_

_The look on Sam’s face was so instantly, incredibly grateful that Dean almost felt guilty. “Thanks.” Sam’s face twisted as he released Dean’s jacket, fingers grabbing at Dean’s face. “Thank you.”_

_It was too much; Sam so emotional, grasping Dean’s face as he looked at Dean with those worshipping, loving eyes. Their faces were too close together, Sam drawing even closer; sickly sweet smell of beer breathed into Dean’s mouth. Dean rolled his eyes to the side and closed them as he smacked Sam’s hand away._

_“All right. Come on,” Dean ordered, his voice deep and raspy. He pushed Sam down against the bed and Sam finally relented. Sam rolled over against the bed, burying his face against the pillow, hips rocking for a moment before he settled in._

_Dean sat down on the chair and rubbed a shaking hand across his jaw as he looked at Sam. Sam; his little brother--the only thing that had ever really mattered to Dean—was asking Dean to kill him._

_Dean lifted his hand, palm meeting his forehead, fingers pushing up into his hair as he let his face fall forward. Sam might as well have asked Dean to kill himself. Life without Sam was something Dean couldn’t begin to contemplate._

_Without Sam, there was nothing worth living for._

Dean stops reading, glancing to the side for a long moment. Okay. There was a bed and some face grabbing and stuff, but still… really? _That_ was ‘slashy’? They’re brothers, for fuck’s sake-- _family_. What kind of person twists that into sex?

_Maybe it was the part where Sam looked at you with worshipping, loving eyes?_

Shut up. That was totally a little brother thing.

_Or maybe it was the part where you knew you couldn’t kill him even if you **should** , because you can’t live without him?_

Shut. Up.

Dean flicks through the book, eyes scanning the pages idly. He’s lying on the bed, still flipping through when Sam walks out of the bathroom, hair still wet from the shower.

“You’re reading again?” Sam asks, sitting down on the end of his bed.

“You’re the one who wanted the books.”

“For _reference_ , Dean. You’re _obsessing_. You seriously need a new hobby.”

_‘They moved like magnets with opposing poles, and Dean turned away, unable to bear the look in Sam’s eyes.’_

Dean slams the book closed. “You got anything for us to kill yet?”

*

“We’ve got another death,” Sam sighs twenty minutes later as Dean emerges from the bathroom. Sam’s flicking a pen back and forth restlessly between two fingers of the hand that isn’t smearing his eyes into weird shapes.

“Where?” Dean asks, rubbing a towel against his wet hair and reaching for his backpack.

“Storm Lake, Iowa. Samuel Jones, found dead earlier this morning in his home. Three days after telling his best friend that his dead wife, Katherine, had come back to him.”

Dean tosses the towel on the bed and rolls a t-shirt over his head. “How far is that from here?”

Sam doesn’t have to type anything, just looks at Dean and says, “About thirteen hours north and east.”

“Dammit, Sam.” Dean yanks at the hem of his shirt. “Does this thing have a pattern or what?”

“All male victims… all their wives died within the last year. That’s all I’ve got so far. This thing seems to move slowly, take its time with its victims.”

“We’re driving blind.”

“I’ll find the pattern,” Sam insists quietly. “But for now…”

Dean nods. “We head to Storm Lake, talk to the best friend.”

*

It’s a little more than thirteen hours to the Storm Lake, and when they finally roll into ‘The Imperator Inn’, Dean turns the keys, engine dying. They get out and grab their bags, and Sam stops when he realizes Dean’s not behind him.

“I’m gonna get some sodas,” Dean says, lifting a shoulder in the direction of the machines. 

Sam nods and lets himself into the room.

Dean can’t get his phone into his hand fast enough, walking past the other rooms at the motel, past the soda machines and around the corner.

“Hi, Dean,” Chuck sighs.

“‘They moved like magnets with opposing poles’?” Dean demands. “Are you serious? No _wonder_ our fans slash us.”

“I only tell the story.”

“No,” Dean says, holding up a finger, turning hard on his heels. “Those are _your_ words. _You_ wrote it that way. I never thought we moved like…” Dean makes helpless, emphatic gestures with his free hand, “ _magnetic poles_ ,” he spits.

“Maybe you never thought it…” Chuck says with heavy hesitation. “Not _specifically_ ,” he adds, like an apology before he hurries on. “But that’s what came through.”

“So…” Dean says, very slowly, needing to understand, “you _understand_ why people _slash_ us? Is _that_ what you’re saying?”

“I mean… I’m saying that… well… you two do spend every second together and you do have this self-sacrificing tendency to put each other before anything else, and it makes sense, how some people would… um…interpret that differently.”

“And now you see it, too?”

“I… well… a few weeks ago, I, um, didn’t…”

“But _now_ you _do_?” Dean demands, outraged.

“Your fascination with fanfiction really isn’t helping,” Chuck says, half-admonishing.

The line goes dead, and Dean stares at the phone for a few long seconds.

Perfect. Even the prophet’s starting to buy in.

*

Dean pretends to sleep until Sam’s snoring into the pillow, and then he gets up from the bed, picking up the laptop and moving quietly into the bathroom. He sits the laptop on the vanity sideways and makes sure it’s _really_ far away from the sink before he sits down on the closed toilet lid, considering the Google logo for a minute while he tries to remember the name of the journal he’d been looking at the other morning. 

Dean remembers the user name and types it into the search bar along with ‘LiveJournal’. The journal pops up first in the list of links, and he finds the link to her stories right at the top of her posts.

He clicks on one of the stories that promises ‘Jealous!Top!Dean’ and wonders if he should worry that he’s totally begun to understand the lingo.

_Dean’s got his body draped across the diner counter like an invitation, angle of hips and wide grin pointed at the waitress behind it._

It hits Dean all over again, how surreal this is. Someone wrote this about _him_. Yeah, they thought they were writing it about a fictional character, but… Dean rubs at his temples and wonders what ‘nyxocity’ would think if she knew Dean was a real person and reading one of her stories about him right now.

Embarrassed? Pleased? Indescribable? Some other LiveJournal emotion?

This is so twisted.

_"Only people who don't know something belongs to them get jealous, Sam. And I fucking **know** you're mine." Dean thrusts, sends Sam's hips slamming to the wall._

_"Little full of yourself," Sam manages to rasp out, feels Dean's chest rumble against him, chuckling._

_"Gonna make you full of me, too," he promises._

Oh, come _on_. Cheesy one liners? That’s…

Actually, that’s fair.

It’s still… really fucking far from normal, reading himself dirty talking to… _Sam_ , but it’s a lot better than reading about himself getting skewered by Sam’s huge, magical cock.

_"Think that waitress would’ve done you better?” Dean asks, undercurrent of danger. "Think she would have pegged your pretty ass if you begged real nice? I bet she would've. She looked so **eager**. Bet she would've loved hearing how your brother fucks you. The way you moan and wriggle on the end of my cock."_

_" **If** I went home with her…” Sam grunts, “wouldn't have been talking about **you**." He's pushing it, knows he is. **Wants** to._

Little fucking shit needs to be put in his—

He did not just think that.

_“Get your fucking ass on the bed, Sammy.” Dean’s hands fall to his belt buckle, slow work of his fingers over the clasp, smooth tug sliding leather from the loops. “ **Now**.”_

_“Gonna punish me?” The words come out breathless, not as harsh as he means them. Dean smiles, sends shivers racing down Sam’s spine._

_“Naked,” Dean adds. Hands on each end of the belt, pull and a snap as it straightens against the air. “On your hands and knees.”_

And now… _he’s_ spanking _Sam_. Which is way more like it, in Dean’s opinion, but seriously, what is it with these people and the kink? Sure, Dean’s spanked a few girls in his time, tied a few of them up, even. Some of them liked him to be rough and dominant, girls have dressed up for him, he’s used toys on more than a few, had threesomes with two women, had sex in public places. He’s no stranger to kink. He kinda digs it; it’s fun, keeps things interesting. But what’s wrong with just _fucking_ every once in a while, for fuck’s sake?

Dean reads through the spanking, and then… story-Dean’s doing that tongue thing. Christ. Guys really _do_ that to each other? It’s one thing to do it to a girl, but… He squints and then blinks at the words on the screen. Well… now he knows how it’s done in _detail_. Dean blanches, skimming down to the actual sex.

_“Anybody fuck you as good as me, huh?” Dark grin of Dean’s voice, self-assured. He doesn’t stop fucking Sam but his fingers hesitate, circle of pressure around the rim of Sam’s cock. “Come on, Sammy. Tell me.”_

_Sam bites down on the inside of his jaw, feels his pride sting as the word comes free. “No.”_

Of course not. Dean may not be a gay sex expert, but if there’s one thing Dean prides himself on, it’s—

He might need to lay off the fanfic.

He takes a breath and clears his throat, leaning back as he finishes reading the last few lines.

_Dean flops on the mattress beside him, breathing hard. All the anger's drained out of him now, and he's giving Sam a look that makes Sam... worried._

_"What?"_

_“I knew it. Best you ever had.” Dean grins, pleased and smug. “You are so my bitch.”_

_Sam sinks his face in the pillow and sighs._

Dean smirks in agreement for a few seconds before he realizes what he’s doing.

He _definitely_ needs to lay off the fanfic.

Just like he’s quit doing everything else that’s bad for him, right?

Yeah, he’ll get right on that.

He’s just glad he never started smoking. Though, considering his life, smoking might be a lot less lethal.

He clicks on another link.

*

What he _really_ needs to understand, Dean decides around 2am, is why so many _women_ write this and think it’s hot, and how he can work that to his advantage in the future.

He logs into the message boards and gets about halfway through typing the question before he stops, hitting the backspace key and erasing the whole thing.

Why women think two guys fucking is hot becomes pretty obvious if you’re a straight guy who enjoys a good girl on girl porn scene, and Dean really does.

But… brothers? How—

His brain interrupts him with an image from a really hot porn movie he’d watched a couple months ago that featured two sisters going at it.

He stops, taking his fingers away from the keyboard.

When the crazy starts to make sense? It’s time to close the laptop.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Dean wakes up in the morning from what may be the most disturbing dream he’s ever had—and that’s saying something. In it, Sam was Jack the Ripper, and Dean wore poofy dresses and wigs and blushed and was all prim and proper as Sam—

Fuck… did he actually read that one somewhere?

As he heads for the shower, he wonders if it’s possible to sue fanfic writers for mental anguish.

The steaming water hits his back as the last details of the dream start to fade. He soaps up the washcloth and runs it over his skin, trying to ignore the familiar, morning ache between his legs. He washes himself as quickly as he can, not lingering anywhere, but it’s been a few days, and even the water stinging against his skin feels good.

He finally leans back against the cool tile, hot water streaming over his body as he grips his cock in his hand, stroking it quick and hard. He bites down, lower lip catching between his teeth as he twists his wrist—

_Sam stared up at him through the dark fringe of his hair, water plastering it to his face, mouth wet and glistening as he—_

Dean growls, yanking his hand from his cock and spinning around. He stops short of punching the wall, pressing his forehead to the tile instead. It’s been this way for days.

Fuck.

He’s never going to be able to jerk off again.

*

Sam wakes up around the time Dean’s brushing his teeth, and so help him, if Sam gives him one bitch-ass look—

But Sam doesn’t; just yawns and reaches for the toothpaste. For a split second, Dean’s tempted to bitch about _that_ —and then he remembers that he’s temporarily insane from fanfic overdose and Sam has no idea.

Dean decides singing _Styx_ is a better retaliation.

Dean hits the chorus of _Renegade_ and the look on Sam’s face makes him feel a hundred times better.

*

The victim’s former best friend doesn’t live far from the motel. They finish off their bakery muffins—chocolate chip for Dean, recycled cardboard and seeds for Sam--on the way there. Dean drains his coffee and sets the cup in the holder, looking at Sam.

Sam nods, breathing out.

They get out of the car and walk to the door together, shoulders brushing against each other. It feels normal, natural, and Dean’s way more conscious of it than he should be. 

Sam knocks on the door, taking the lead. A man in a pair of wrinkled blue jeans and an even more disheveled t-shirt opens the door, running a hand through his messy, dark blond hair.

“What?” he asks simply, and Dean arches a brow.

“Brad Thomas?” Sam asks.

“Yeah,” Brad responds, voice dull, unimpressed.

“FBI,” Sam says, pulling out his fake ID. “We’re here about--”

“Sam,” Brad nods, jaw line working. “Sure,” he shrugs. “Come on in.”

Sam and Dean follow the guy inside, Dean closing the door quietly behind them. They follow the guy up the landing stairs to the kitchen as he heads for the fridge and yanks open the door.

“Beer?” Brad asks, holding up a brown bottle like an invitation.

Dean really wants to say yes, but he’s learned his lesson about accepting beers from strangers. “No. We’re on duty. But thanks.”

Brad pulls out another bottle, anyway, as he lets the fridge door fall shut. He wraps his hand around the bottle cap and twists it off, lifting it to his mouth for a long swallow before he finally looks at them again. “Living room?” he asks.

Dean and Sam share a long glance that says _guy’s crazy or seen something he shouldn’t have_ and _yeah, no shit_ , before Sam slides his hands into his pockets and shifts his shoulders. “That would be fine, Mr. Thomas.”

Brad settles into the armchair, Sam sitting on one arm of the couch, Dean easing down on the cushions towards other end. 

“Local police already asked me about everything,” Brad says, taking another drink from his bottle.

Dean and Sam share another glance and Sam rolls his lips together nodding. “Mr. Thomas, we’d like to hear firsthand about Mr. Jones’s last few days.”

“Why is the FBI investigating this, anyway?” Brad asks. 

“Mr. Jones is the third person in the last month to die after reportedly seeing his dead wife.”

The fact that Brad doesn’t even blink or ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean seals the fact that he knows something. “Local cops wouldn’t share their files?” 

“They did,” Dean supplies smoothly. “But we have a feeling that…” he shares another quick glance with Sam, “there may be more to this particular case than meets the eye.”

Brad reaches for the bottle and tilts it up, fast and hard, sucking down the rest of liquid in it.

“Why don’t you start with telling us what…Sam… was like before his wife died?” Sam suggests.

“Sam? He was the nicest guy you’d ever wanna meet. He liked everybody, you know?” Brad gestures at the air with one hand. “He had this belief in people. Totally optimistic. I always told him… it never ends up like that.” Brad struggles for a moment, fingers flitting to the beer bottle, closing around its neck. “But he never did listen,” Brad goes on, shaking his head. “And…and then Kat died in that car crash…”

“And then he changed?” Sam asks.

“After Kat died… Sam was never the same. I guess… most people would have said he was still mourning, right? Only eight months, he just wasn’t over it yet. But it wasn’t like that with them.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asks, head tilting to the side.

“I mean… he never would have gotten over it,” Brad says with a bitter laugh, spreading his hands apart. “They met in elementary school, got together in eighth grade and got married the year after high school. Spent every minute together, even through twenty years of marriage. Some people… they’re just meant to be. The way they loved each other… you’d have always thought they were going to go out together, you know? Like… God wouldn’t have let it happen any other way. Both of them would have rather been dead than live without the other.”

“Do you think it’s possible that he took his own life?” 

Sam keeps asking questions, making notes, but Dean stops tracking about right there.

The story sounds familiar. Take out the falling in love and getting married parts and old Jed’s a millionaire.

Sam’s right. He’s really got to stop obsessing about this.

*

“If Brad saw her too, that means this thing is corporeal at least some of the time,” Sam is saying.

“You sure it’s the same monster?” Dean asks as he starts the car and puts the Impala into gear.

“It matches the other cases,” Sam says. “Greatest love of someone’s life dies… this thing comes along, assumes their form… kills the one left behind.”

“Turns it into a real life Romeo and Juliet story,” Dean finishes.

“Yeah.”

“Gotta love the ironic monsters.”

Sam’s quiet for a long moment. “I saw you…” Sam confesses, staring out the side window like the trees flying by are the most mesmerizing thing he’s ever seen. “After you died.”

“Not like that,” Dean grates, fingers, tightening against the steering wheel.

“No.” Sam shakes his head. “But there were times… when you were so real…” Sam’s hands draw together across his lap.

“I’m real now, Sam.”

Sam clears his throat, fingers closing together as he sits up straight. “Yeah.”

Dean takes a deep breath and keeps his eyes on the road.

*

When they get back to the motel, Dean gives Sam some quality time alone with his laptop and goes to get lunch.

“Lhiannan Shee,” Sam proclaims as Dean walks into the room.

“She what?” Dean asks, baffled.

“The thing we’re chasing.” Sam rolls his eyes when Dean doesn’t catch on immediately. “It’s Gaelic. A kind of vampire that drains the soul.”

“A _kind_?” Dean asks, brows rising. “We have _kinds_ now?”

“Legends make references to all kinds of vampires; Ekimmu, Empusas, Kuang-shi, Lamia, Rakshasa. Incubi and Succubae are the most common.”

Dean nods, setting down plastic cartons and shucking out of his coat. “And this one’s a soul-eater.”

“Actually all of those feed on souls.”

“Great. So what makes you think this one’s a…”

“Lhiannan Shee,” Sam repeats. “Because they appear to the victim as their truest love—usually a lost or deceased loved one.” Sam glances down, reading from the page. “The Lhiannon Shee feeds on the victim for days, sometimes weeks, draining them slowly. The victim is besotted… goes to them, again and again, lost in euphoric bliss.”

“Until they’re sucked dry.”

“And no marks left behind.”

“It say anything about how to kill them?”

Sam’s eyes scan the page until he frowns. “No.”

Dean slides into the chair across from Sam, opening the carton and pulling out his sandwich. “What’re our chances of getting close to it without getting our souls sucked out?”

“Not sure… But it’s corporeal when it feeds,” Sam says, reading from the page.

“Makes it tough to spot in a crowd.”

“Yeah.”

“Then we can’t get near it. Not until we know its weakness.”

Sam’s eyes fly up, meeting Dean’s with a challenge. “Dean, someone else is probably dying slowly right now.”

Dean stops with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “You really wanna take this thing on without knowing how to kill it? After what we went through with the siren?” 

Sam’s lips purse, then fall into a thin line. His eyes fall back to his laptop screen, and he sighs. “No.”

“Then keep looking.”

*

Dean spends the afternoon sprawled out on the bed, books scattered all around him as he skims through the scenes.

_Dean smacked Sam on the ass as he turned away, smirking. “Come on, honey.”_

Dean remembers. Remembers playing the “gay couple” to the hilt and enjoying the hell out of Sam’s discomfort.

He scratches at his neck and sets the book aside.

//

_Dean snatched the necklace from the shape shifter’s throat with a pointed look at Sam, his eyes simmering, filled with emotion._

_It was the only thing Sam had ever **given** him. What it meant to Dean… How dare that **thing** take it? Wear it like it was really Dean, like it was mocking him? He hoped it would fucking **rot**._

Dean shuts the book, fingers falling to the charm hanging around his throat, tips tracing out the smooth shape of it.

//

_“Dad lied to me. I want you to have it.”_

_“You sure?”_

_“I’m sure.” Dean’s the one who’s always been there for him, anyway._

_Dean tore open the brightly colored newspaper, stopping when he saw what was inside. His face lit up like the Christmas lights on the tree._

_“Thanks, Sam. I love it.”_

_The memory dissolved with a chill blast of winter air as Dean walked through the door of the motel room. The charm still hung around his neck, where it had always been since Sam gave it to him, a symbol of the bond between them that went even deeper than blood._

Dean’s never taken it off voluntarily, not once… except for the time he was with Anna... and then only because he didn’t want a reminder of Sam thumping against his chest while he… Well, she was an angel, and that would have been weird.

He flexes his fingers and closes the book, closing his mind just as firmly on the thought.

//

_‘The look shared between them was laden with unspoken words, years of hidden language hanging heavy in the silence.’_

//

_‘Sam’s fingers dug into Dean’s shoulder, warm and reassuring…’_

//

_‘They moved through the darkness of the empty house shoulder to shoulder, down the stairs like two halves of the same whole, movements of each completing the others.’_

This is ridiculous. 

Chuck expects Dean to believe he didn’t do this intentionally?

Chuck is a total fangirl.

 _All Day Long Chuck Dreams About Incest_ , Dean thinks, tossing the book.

*

They set out from the motel that evening without a destination. As long as they’re not sitting ducks in some anonymous motel room for days at a time, Dean’s happy.

They’re barely an hour into the trip when Sam speaks up.

“You know… You’re not the Dean I remember.”

Dean bites down on his lower lip, foot pushing against the gas pedal. “Really? So what am I now, Sam? ‘Cause I really can’t wait to hear.”

“Even a year ago,” Sam says, “you would have just wanted to _kill_ this thing. Screw ‘how’.”

Dean’s about had it with this shit already. “You’re right,” Dean snaps. “I’m _not_ the Dean you remember. I got an extra thirty years in Hell to think, and then ten more to fuck up and think about it—every. Single. Day. And for the record, you’re not the Sam I remember, either. Screwing demons and using powers.”

“Dean, I spent four months without you… and the only reason I wanted to live? Was to bring you back or destroy Lilith utterly for what she did to you.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, word cut short and tight as his fingers flex hard against the steering wheel. “I spent _one day_ without you, and I _know_.”

Highway markers fall away; one, two, three before Sam finally speaks up again.

“ _I’m_ the one who had to live without you for _six months_ under the Trickster’s spell. And then four more after you were finally gone. Everything I did, everything I’m doing, it’s for _you_. So go ahead and tell me how I’m all screwed up.”

Dean could. He could tell Sam every single way he’s screwed up. But he just shakes his head, jaw and chest clenching. “This…” Dean says, turning his face to look at Sam.

“ _This_ is why people slash us.”

“What?”

“Look at us, Sam. We’d do anything for each other. Neither of us is much for living without the other. We ride in the same car all day, eat together, and sleep in the same room together. When was the last time we spent more than a few hours apart?” 

Dean’s mouth goes on by itself, the way it does sometimes. “We know _way_ more about each other than any two people should. I can list every disgusting habit you have, every single annoying quirk, I know all your expressions and body movements, know every single thing you like to eat and everything you hate. I know how to piss you off from zero to sixty in under a second, and how to charm you into not being pissed off, when I feel like it. I know _everything_ about you except for how you’re getting more powerful. I even know what you sound like when you…” Dean makes a hand motion, “even if I’d rather not have accidentally walked in on that. It’s not like either of us is ever gonna have a wife or kids or even a relationship as long as we’re hunting, and we both know how a hunting life ends.”

“Yeah, okay, Dean. But still.” That’s either Sam’s uncomfortable face or his guilty one—maybe _both_. No matter which one it is, it’s enough to snap Dean out of his train of thought.

“Right.” Dean tightens his hands on the wheel and keeps his eyes on the road.

“So how ‘bout them Busty Asian Beauties, huh?”

*

When they stop for the night, Dean skims through _Scarecrow_ while Sam gets ready for bed.

“You’re _smiling_ over one of those stories?” Sam asks, stopping short as he steps out of the bathroom. 

“Huh?” Dean says, looking up as the smile slides slowly from his face. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just… sometimes it was fun, wasn’t it? Road-tripping and hunting things? You know… before… Dad died and I… sold my soul.” Dean stops, rubbing a hand across his jaw and throws the book on the bed. 

Sam’s brows draw together, and he’s looking at Dean with his patented 'sad' eyes. “Dean…”

“Nah.” Dean shakes his head. “You’re right. I’m sitting here all nostalgic over you saving me from getting killed by a Scarecrow,” he says with chuckle. “File that under ‘you know you your life sucks when…’” Dean pushes up from the bed and walks past Sam to the bathroom. He hears Sam turn around, but Sam doesn’t seem to have anything to say. Not that Dean blames him; what the hell do you say about that besides how true it is?

Dean closes the door and puts his hands on the sink, leaning his weight against them.

Dean misses those early days. It wasn’t the best of times, but at least it was _them_ , without deals, or heaven and hell in the middle. It’s not the argument they had earlier. It’s not the ‘Gospel’. It’s not even the stupid fucking fanfiction. It’s Hell, it’s Lilith, it’s all the space that’s been growing between them ever since Dean made that fucking deal. Dean wishes he didn’t know that—knows he would have been able to _ignore_ knowing that, before. There was a time when he could eat a cheeseburger and chase pretty girls in skirts, kill some evil sons of bitches with his brother and fall into bed satisfied with a day’s work well done. But three years plus forty more in Hell gives a person a lot of time to think. A lot of time to make even more mistakes. 

To be given a second chance and watch Sam slip away through his fingers? God’s a cold, cruel bastard. But he’s up there. 

He wonders if Sam still prays.

He doubts it.

*

Sam looks like he’s already asleep when Dean comes out of the bathroom.

He turns off the room light and crawls between the sheets, settling in against the pillow, his back turned to Sam. He slides his hand under his head; fingers finding his gun, letting them rest there. Even that doesn’t make him feel safe the way it used to. The leagues they’re playing in now, it might as well be a spatula.

He’s drifting, on the verge of falling asleep when Sam says,

“Sometimes it was fun.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth curls in a half-smile.

*

“Hey, Dean,” Sam calls as Dean’s on his way out the motel door the next morning. “Could you get something _without_ grease for once?”

“Heathen,” Dean tosses over his shoulder before he shuts the door.

Dean drives a little farther than he normally would, until he spots a diner that looks modern and trendy. He orders bacon eggs and pancakes for himself and grudgingly adds a fruit salad and berry waffles for Sam. He spots sunflower seeds on the rack by the register and snags a bag. Okay, they’re his one healthy vice, but he loves them. Plus it drives Sam crazy when he spits out the shells. When the food comes, Dean pays the cute girl behind the counter and then asks to borrow her pen. He writes the word “pansy” in huge, capital letters on the lid of Sam’s Styrofoam carton and then draws a heart shape around the word. Then he does the same thing to Sam’s coffee cup.

That, right there? Makes him feel better about the whole thing.

He’s still grinning when he hands the girl back her pen. She’s looking at Dean’s handiwork and smiling. 

“Aw, that’s sweet,” she says. “Your girlfriend’s name is Pansy?”

Dean almost laughs, two seconds from explaining before the implication hits him.

“Yeah,” he sighs, rolling his eyes as he grabs the cartons off the counter.

*

“So?” Dean asks as he opens the door. “What’d you figure out this time?”

Sam looks up at him, curious. “What makes you think I found something?”

“Because every time I leave a motel room and come back, you find out something new about a case. All the books back it up. I’m starting to think maybe I should just leave and come back all day long until you solve the whole case.”

“That makes no sense at all, you realize that?”

Dean shrugs and shoves Sam’s food at him. “Your food, Princess.”

Sam makes a face when he sees the carton. “Cute.”

“Just callin’ it like I see it,” Dean smiles, shrugging out of his jacket. “So?” he asks, sliding into the seat at the table across from Sam. “You telling me you didn’t find out anything while I was gone?”

Sam pulls his resigned face and Dean grins. “I knew it.”

“This in no way supports your lame theory,” Sam informs him. Then, Sam sits back, looking at the computer screen, rolling a pencil between his fingers. “Michael Wells, reported in ‘The Sun’ as having seen his dead wife yesterday. In Havelock, North Dakota, about seven hours from here on the backroads. Michael and Diane were ‘soulmates’, according to the article.”

“‘The Sun’?” Dean pauses in the middle of opening his own carton, looking up at Sam across the lid. “Maybe while we’re at it we can stop by and meet the woman who gave birth to the two headed wolf-boy.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s what we’ve got. It fits the pattern; he’s not dead yet.”

Dean tilts his head to the side, thinking, and then he shrugs. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

“Without knowing how to kill the monster?” Sam’s frowning at him.

“Screw it,” Dean says, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“Iron,” Sam smirks. “That’s what kills it.”

“See what I’m saying?” Dean grins.

Sam shakes his head, snorting out a laugh.

*

They drive through the day and get a motel room near Michael’s place in the evening. 

The sun hasn’t fully broken the horizon the next morning when they park along the curb in front of Michael’s house.

“I think we should tell him the truth,” Dean says as they get out of the car.

“You think he’ll believe us?”

“You really think he thinks his wife came back from the dead?”

Sam hesitates and then shrugs. “You did. So did I.”

“Yeah, well, we’re _special_. We’ve got our own Gospel. This thing’s a fucking vampire.”

Sam nods, pursing his lips. 

“You hold him when he cries,” Dean says, ringing the doorbell, and Sam gets that look on his face like he did when they were kids and Dean won at “not it”.

*

It doesn’t take much to convince Michael. Just the basic truth, and then he’s pushing a hand to his mouth, fighting back tears.

Dean looks at him and then glances away.

“I knew it…” Michael says, voice choking. “I knew deep down that it couldn’t be her… but I wanted it to be… so much.”

Dean exchanges a glance with Sam, and then imagines Chuck writing something like ‘Sam and Dean gazed into each other eyes; secretly eye-fucking while the unknowing victim watched on’.

How is he supposed to live this way?

“So you understand the plan?” Sam asks Michael, all puppy dog eyes and sympathy.

“Yeah.” Michael hitches in a breath and nods.

*

Dean’s not sure his head is 100% in the mission, but he goes with it anyway. 

They stake out Michael’s living room window, branches of the hedge row scraping at Dean’s back, Sam pressed close beside him, knees brushing.

Michael… watches TV for a while and then disappears for a long time. He finally reappears with a bowl of macaroni and cheese, eyeing the TV avidly as he scarfs it down.

“It’s like playing the Sims,” Dean sighs. “I get to watch someone go to work and then come home, take a piss and cook dinner and then pass out on the couch. He could at least burn down the kitchen. That would be exciting. That’s the only reason I ever liked Sims, you know? Setting a house fire from cooking was prime entertainment.”

“ _You_ ,” Sam says, looking at him and enunciating very clearly, “played _Sims_?”

“For like five minutes when I was twenty-three. Cassie loved the game,” he adds, when Sam keeps staring at him. “When my character died in the burning kitchen? The fucking game took a _snapshot_ of me and Cassie's characters all dead and added it to our ‘photo album’, because ‘a very important event had occurred’. How messed up is that? Game was fucking _sick_.”

“Shut up,” Sam hisses

Dean sits back on his haunches and picks at the tiny, fraying hole in the knee of his jeans. “This is boring.”

“Shhh,” Sam hisses. "Look.

Dean turns his eyes back towards the living room.

There’s a woman there now, dark eyes and dark hair, smiling at Michael before she leans to kiss him.

“Perfect,” Dean says as he rises to his feet. 

*

They burst through the front door, turning the handle and kicking it wide open.

It doesn’t work out like they expect. The thing vanishes the second it sees them, and Dean runs towards the stairs leading up to the bedrooms, yelling at Sam to take the main level.

He checks every room, tire iron poised in his hands as he opens every single closet. He makes his way all the way to the end of the hall, and checks the last bedroom. He throws open the closet door—and there’s nothing inside but some clothes partying like it’s 1990.

Dammit.

“Did you kill it?” Sam asks, walking into the room, crowbar clenched tight in his hands.

“Can’t see it anymore. It’s not feeding.” Dean lowers the tire iron, shaking his head. “Shit. It’s probably blown town by now.”

“Probably,” Sam nods. “But I can’t help thinking…” Sam goes on, lifting the crowbar against his shoulder like a bat, “about this thing’s M.O.”

Dean cuts his eyes at Sam, lids narrowing together into slits. “Sam. What the fuck are you doing?”

“Not letting my guard down. It could be _you_.” 

“What?” Dean snaps. “Why the fuck would it look like _me_ , Sam?”

“Think about it. The one you’d give anything for? Die for?” 

“Sam...” Dean says, taking a deep breath. “We’re not…”

“No. But it could still be you.”

“You wanna look at it _that_ way--How do I know that you’re _you_?” Dean asks, taking a sudden step back.

Sam stops, whole body halting as he stares at Dean. “Shit,” he breathes, letting the weapon fall to his side and then from his hand. It clatters against the hardwood floor. “Has it gotten this bad, Dean? That we don’t even know each other anymore?”

Shape shifters spring to mind for being pretty convincing, but Sam’s shaking his head and looking pensive and sad. He looks incredibly disappointed in himself, and Dean figures there’s no creature in the world that hates itself enough to pretend to pout like Sam does.

“I couldn’t, you know,” Sam adds, closing his eyes like the admission costs him. “Even if you _were_ that thing… I couldn’t take the chance. I couldn’t,” Sam says, opening his eyes. His jaw shifts, like it does when he’s coming to a hard decision. “Not ever.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, word leaving him slowly after a long moment. “Okay.” He feels like he should do something more than that, though, considering the magnitude of Sam’s puppy dog eyes. Black holes have nothing on Sam’s eyes at his most emo.

Dean pats Sam’s shoulder. “We both got confused, it’s all good.” 

“Yeah,” Sam breathes, looking at Dean as he takes a step closer. “But there’s one thing I’m _not_ confused about anymore.”

Sam’s mouth touches his, sleek glide that makes Dean tense and recoil--but then Sam’s arms are around him, pulling him in. It doesn’t feel anything like Dean thought it would—like their mouths would slip off each other like ‘opposing magnetic poles’. It’s still pretty fucking weird, but… he's been wondering... and... for one... _one_ split second, Dean goes with it—

“Dean!”

Sam’s voice; booming at him from across the room and it’s instinct, years of training and working together that makes him yank away, ducking and rolling. He comes up on his knees, tire iron at the ready, just in time to see—

Sam-- _his_ Sam—shoving the straight end of the crowbar through the other Sam’s chest.

The other Sam crumples, falling to the floor, and then it dissolves, dissipating into mist, smoky tendrils floating on the air around the thrust of the crowbar.

They stare at each other for a long moment over the rolling smoke until it’s finally gone, and then they stare a little bit longer.

Shit. Sam… saw that?

“You were totally _kissing it_ ,” Sam almost shouts, like he’s offended.

Yeah, Sam totally saw that. 

“Dude. _It_ kissed _me_ ,” Dean protests, rising to his feet.

“You were totally kissing it back.” 

“Was _not_.”

“Were _too_.”

“ _Was not_.”

“ _Were too_.”

“What the fuck _ever_.” 

*

“I didn’t _kiss it_ , Sam,” Dean says, hissing out the syllables as he turns the car hard left around a street corner.

“Yeah.” Sam snorts. “You slipped and fell on its _mouth_ , I get it.”

“ _No_ ,” Dean corrects, “ _it_ fell on MINE.”

“And you didn’t _run away_ from your _brother_ planting one on you?”

“I was totally caught off guard,” Dean snarls. “Besides, Sam. The thing had _your_ crowbar. How the fuck did it get that away from you, huh? Last you told me, thing wasn’t much of a fighter.”

Sam shuts up. 

That’s almost more disconcerting than the argument they’re having.

“Who did it look like, Sam?” he demands.

Sam maintains his moody silence, scowling at the dashboard, arms folded across his chest.

“Jess? Madison?”

Sam jolts visibly, face flinching with guilt.

What…? What the _fuck_? Pain; pain Dean could understand in either case, but guilt…?

Unless… maybe it was a guy?

That would explain a _lot_.

“Brad Pitt?” Dean asks. “Daniel Craig?”

Sam doesn’t budge an inch, and he just looks guiltier and guiltier.

“Siegfried?” 

“Roy?” 

“One of the tigers?”

When _that_ doesn’t get a reaction out of Sam, Dean sighs and gives up.

*

They make it another five miles before Dean can’t keep his mouth shut anymore. 

“I don’t fucking get you.”

“You don’t get _me_?” Sam demands, turning incredulous eyes on him.

“No. I don’t. You can’t tell me what the hell you saw? That thing went all ‘Flowers in the Attic’ on _me_ ,” he snaps. “Whatever you saw can’t be worse than _that_.”

Sam goes quiet for a long time; so long that Dean’s sure he’s not going to answer.

“No. Not worse,” Sam’s voice is so low that Dean can barely hear him. Sam’s hands twist together between his knees, thumbs rubbing across each other, his eyes fixed on them.

Why is he…? Seriously, what the _fuck_ is--

Dean blinks, eyes focusing on the road. 

Oh.

Well…

He—

They—

But…

“That makes total sense, right?” Dean asks, trying to keep his tone light as he glances at Sam. “I mean… what the thing said about us doing anything for each other… dying for each other… I mean, that’s why I saw you.” Dean makes a quick motion with his hand and puts it back on the steering wheel, swallowing hard.

“Absolutely,” Sam agrees. 

“Right,” Dean says and nods emphatically. “So… how did it get the crowbar away from you?”

“It asked me for it.”

“And you just turned it over?”

“I thought it was you.”

“So how’d it get away?”

“It hit me with the crowbar.” Sam squirms in his seat, uncomfortable. 

“Huh.”

Any hit that would have slowed Sam down for the few minutes it took him to get up to the room should’ve left a mark. Dean doesn’t see any gashes on Sam’s face. 

“Must’ve left one hell of lump on the back of your head.”

“It’s… not bad,” Sam hedges.

Dean recognizes that tone, understands in a second that there’s no lump, that Sam never got hit with a crowbar. But why would Sam lie? What could he possibly have to lie _about_?

_there’s one thing I’m _not_ confused about anymore_

Dean feels the world narrow to a sudden, sharp point of focus, realization hitting him so hard that it reverberates through him like shock waves.

Sam kissed it.

The thought is so overwhelming that for a few seconds it’s the only thing that exists; so complete and singular that he can almost hear the empty whirring of the rest of his brain around it.

Dean doesn’t have it in him to be angry that Sam is bitching him out for the same exact thing—he’s too busy being stunned. The amount of time Sam would have had to kiss the thing to get knocked out by it… well, it had to be more than the few seconds Dean got to experience, because Dean didn’t even feely dizzy afterwards.

Sam… not only let the thing kiss him, he let it _keep_ kissing him.

Sam was… _willingly_ …

They’re driving down a straight stretch of highway, and Dean turns the wheel, tires edging into the gravel on the shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Sam’s sitting up, looking concerned.

Dean doesn’t answer; cuts the engine and kills the headlights, rolling down the window all the way. He rests his jaw between his thumb and forefinger, elbow propped against the edge of the door. It’s a nice spring night, chilly breeze drifting in.

Sam kissed that thing… thinking it was Dean. For… a long time.

That’s… really fucking weird. And not nearly as disturbing as Dean should be finding the idea.

Sam must…

No.

Really?

No.

But…

_Really?_

The fanfic writers see it. Chuck’s _always_ seen it—Dean doesn’t care how much Chuck protests. Random hotel owners and restaurant workers and even regular every day people mistake them for a couple. Even Castiel seems to see it.

Does Sam see it, too? How _long_ has Sam been seeing it?

_Has it gotten this bad, Dean? That we don’t even know each other anymore?_

Yeah. It obviously has.

“Dean?” Sam is asking from somewhere far away. Sam sounds annoyed, like he’s already said Dean’s name more than a couple times. 

“What?”

“I said; what the fuck are you _doing_?”

“Nothing,” Dean says, snapping back to himself. “Just… Needed a second.”

“For _what_?”

Dean turns the key and starts the engine, throwing the car into gear and hitting the gas.

“Dude. What the hell is up with you?”

“Nothing,” Dean says, quick and hard. Dean sets his jaw and squints at the road.

“Fine.” Sam reaches out and cranks up the volume on the radio.

Dean slaps Sam’s hand out of the way and turns the volume back to where it was.

“Seriously,” Sam says, turning to face Dean. “What the _fuck_ is going on?”

“Driver picks the music _and_ the volume.”

Shotgun sighs and shuts his cakehole without another word.

And he _should_. Because, Sam is a big faking faker who fakes.

Fuck, maybe he needs to lay off the LJ.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

The silence lasts as Dean drives on through the darkness, and eventually Sam falls asleep in the passenger seat. Dean sneaks a glance at him every now and then, wheels still spinning in his brain until finally he gives up, takes the next off-ramp and finds a motel.

He’s still sneaking glances at Sam as they get inside the room. Sam throws his bag on the bed and heads straight for the bathroom, and Dean stands there, shuffling clothes around inside his own bag, watching Sam’s broad shoulders disappear through the door. Dean sets his bag on the floor.

Sam’s not entirely unattractive, Dean’s aware of that; Sam does have Winchester blood, after all. It’s just that he’s been Dean’s little brother with stupid hair always falling in his eyes ever since Dean can remember. That, and Dean is Very Not Gay. He’s so Very Not Gay. And he’s Definitely Very Not Gay when it comes to his little brother.

Except…

Dean thinks about the few seconds where that thing kissed him wearing Sam’s face, how he leaned into it, how he was _curious_ to see what it would feel like. 

No, still not gay. It’s Sam. That can’t possibly count.

And… Sam made out with the goddamned thing, thinking it was Dean, so obviously Sam’s been thinking about _them_ … like _that_. 

_This is why people slash us._

Fuck.

_Look at us, Sam. We’d do anything for each other. Neither of us is much for living without the other. We ride in the same car all day, eat together, and sleep in the same room together. When was the last time we spent more than a few hours apart?_

That’s just… they’re _brothers_.

So they’re brothers who can’t keep their shit straight without each other, so what? And yeah, brothers who can’t live without each other without wanting to die. It makes sense. It’s normal. All they’ve ever had is each other. So what if they’re…

…brothers who make out with doppelgangers of each other.

It’s so far from normal.

_It’s not like either of us is ever gonna have a wife or kids or even a relationship as long as we’re hunting, and we both know how a hunting life ends._

There’s reading fanfic about fucking your brother, then there’s _thinking_ about fucking your brother, and then there’s actually _doing it_. Dean feels really close to the edge on that last one, which is absolutely crazy, or _would_ have been absolutely crazy a couple weeks ago. A week ago it was more like, kinda weird, and then the last few days it’s barely even been a footnote. Now, tonight?

It makes sense. The kind of sense that really _shouldn’t_.

Dean hears the toilet flush and then the water running. He’s got a minute, maybe thirty seconds before Sam’s back, and he takes a breath, makes his choice.

Sam walks out of the bathroom, and Dean levels his eyes on his brother.

“You kissed it,” Dean says, voice low.

Sam starts guiltily, head snapping to look at Dean. 

“You didn’t just kiss it. You _made out_ with it—with _me_.”

Sam opens his mouth and then closes it again, eyes darting frantically around the room. “It wasn’t like that--”

“I’m not stupid, Sam. There’s no marks on your face, or lumps on your head. It didn’t hit you, so you had to have kissed it until it drained you enough to knock you out.”

The look on Sam’s face screams helpless guilt, and Dean’s pretty sure Sam’s seconds from apologizing or something just as lame. Dean doesn’t even wanna go there.

“Only thing I wanna know is; why didn’t you say anything?”

Sam’s shoulders slump, and he looks completely defeated. “What was I _supposed_ to say, Dean?” Sam’s voice is low, heavy with guilt. “I’m pretty sure ‘lately I’ve been thinking about us fucking each other senseless’ wouldn’t have gone over.”

Dean blinks, and then just _stares_ as he takes in that sentence.

“Until I saw you. You kissed me, too.” Sam adds the words like an afterthought of accusation. 

Sam’s not wrong. Dean wants to tell him that he is, that this whole thing is just some kind of fangirl fantasy. That Dean’s never, not even for one second, _thought_ about it. Dean sighs and then takes a deep breath as he gets up from the end of the bed. “And you had the nerve to give me shit for it.” 

Sam raises his hands to his waist, thinks about saying something and then lets them fall. “Wait… what?”

“Why’d you give me shit for it, Sam?”

Sam stutters, stumbling over the words. “It-it freaked me out.”

“Yeah, this whole thing is freaking me out.”

“No kidding,” Sam breathes.

“This…” Dean shoves a hand at Sam, at the space between them, gesture quick and sharp. “You _want_ this?” Dean asks, voice rough, grating low through his throat.

Sam swallows hard, body taut with tension, hands closing into fists at his sides as he looks down at the floor. “Do you?”

Well… that answers his question. Shit. He’s not even ready to think about how much he wants this; how much he’s maybe always wanted it without knowing. But there it is. It’s horrifying, like the time he realized he loved Zebra Cakes even though they tasted like plastic and made his stomach turn through every single bite he couldn’t help taking.

Fine. _Fine_. Dean swallows hard, nails digging into his palms. “There’s… one more thing I need to know.”

Sam blinks rapidly, muscle fluttering in his jaw. “What?”

Dean grits his teeth, hesitating—and the hell with it. They’ve come this far. Why not? Still, the words sting as they leave him, tumbling out in a rush. 

“Why the hell does everyone think you top? Why am I the one who always takes it up the ass, Sam?”

Sam just… stops, body going completely still, face frozen in an expression of shock. “You’ve been… reading the _fanfic_?”

Dean is completely vindicated. “I knew you were reading it too,” Dean says, lifting his chin and smirking. He takes a step, advancing on Sam.

Sam looks embarrassed for a split second, shaggy hair falling into his eyes as he ducks his head, glancing away. “Dean.”

“I’m the older brother. I’m the one who kept hunting when you ran off. I’m the one who fucks at least one chick in every town we visit if we have time. You’re the one who…” Dean gestures with one hand, “cries and feels flowery love and shit.”

Sam opens his mouth, tongue curling against his upper teeth as he nods. “Right. Since we’re confessing… You know… I found a matrix online, comparing how many times you’ve cried compared to me since this whole chronicle started.” Sam’s eyes flash up at him, glittering in the low light. “Guess who won?”

“That is such bullshit,” Dean hisses, taking another step closer to Sam. “You are so the girl in this relationship.”

“But you have prettier eyelashes,” Sam says, batting his own.

“I would so fucking top and you know it,” Dean growls, backing Sam against the wall.

Sam smirks and actually has the nerve to _roll his fucking eyes_. “I don’t know, Dean. Ninety percent of our fans seem to think you _love_ taking it up the ass. They must be getting the idea from _somewhere_.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re a fucking Sasquatch,” Dean snarls, closing in on Sam. “Like _that_ makes any difference.”

“Maybe it’s because you always overcompensate.”

Dean shoves Sam against the wall, pinning him there. “Maybe it’s because you’re the ‘dark’ one.”

“Well,” Sam says, tilting his head back and looking down at Dean. His hair falls back from his face and he swallows once, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Only one way we’ll ever find out,” he says, low and gritty, voice shaking just the tiniest bit.

It suddenly occurs to Dean just how close together they are; Dean’s body pressing Sam’s against the wall, faces inches apart, Dean’s fingers curled in the shoulders of Sam’s jean jacket. 

Dean should let go—knows he should, knows he should turn around and walk away right now--for so many reasons other than the obvious fact that Sam’s his little brother. 

They’re all they’ve got. There’s never going to be anyone else. That’s the way it’s always been, but this… it feels… so final. It could destroy everything. But it _does_ make a crazy kind of fucked up sense. Really fucking crazy and fucked up.

_This... this is why people slash us._

_Look at us, Sam._

God, this is like every Sam/Dean first time cliché he’s ever _read_. For one split second, he’s struck by the paranoid notion that he’s trapped in a fanfic story.

“You’re my little _brother_.” Dean’s voice is less certain than he wishes it was.

“I _feel_ like your little brother?” Sam asks, hips shoving into Dean’s, eyes knowing, dark and challenging. Quick sharp burst of pleasure, friction and denim, Sam dragging against him. Sam. Is pushing into his cock. And it should be so very fucking wrong, but it’s his _cock_ , and apparently it’s not very discriminating.

“Fuck,” Dean sighs, spinning Sam and throwing him down on the bed. He doesn’t think as he falls on top of Sam, Sam bouncing back from the impact, bodies slamming together. Dean shifts his leg, and goddammit, Sam’s hip bone should be a registered weapon, the way it’s digging into Dean’s stomach. Sam keeps grabbing at him with his huge, stupid hands, and Dean can’t really _breathe_ , this close to his brother’s mouth. 

Yeah, this maybe crosses a couple state lines worth of wrong.

Fuck it. He’s… _here_. Might as well. He slams his mouth against Sam’s, sloppy and hard, messy and wet.

He’s read about this a hundred times… but this is nothing like that. Sam doesn’t taste sweet, or verdant, or like a piece of Dean’s soul that’s been missing until now; he tastes like _Sam_. Like salt, and spit and leftover pepperoni pizza, edge of the onions from that salad at lunch still clinging to his breath. Dean can feel the stubble of Sam’s chin dig against his lower lip, tongue sliding too quick and slippery over Dean’s, mouth too soft, the curve of the back of his neck against Dean’s fingers. 

This is _Sam_ underneath him, tongue circling and sucking at Dean’s.

Dean pulls back. “Okay,” Dean says, starting to get up. “This is too weird.”

“Thought you were gonna top,” Sam breathes out, mocking as he yanks Dean back down. Sam bites him on the neck, right behind his ear, tongue flashing out over the skin, and fuck, that feels… kinda good. If Sam moved just a little bit to the left. Dean turns his neck instinctively, and Sam locks his lips around the spot and sucks. Dean tilts his head back, groaning. Okay, that feels… _really_ good and it really shouldn’t, but Sam’s doing something wicked with his tongue against Dean’s skin and it’s been a week since the last time Dean jerked off and he’s losing his ability to tell right from wrong pathetically fast.

“Fuck, this is stupid,” he breathes.

“ _You’re_ stupid,” Sam hisses back.

Dean grabs him the back of his head, fingers fisting around those long, emo-idiotic strands that are bound to get him caught and killed by something one day. “Bitch,” he growls, yanking Sam’s head back.

“Jerk,” Sam says—except he doesn’t _say_ it so much as he moans it, head turning into Dean’s grasp.

“I fucking knew it,” Dean gloats. “You are _such_ a bottom.”

“Tonight,” Sam smirks. 

“Always.” Dean can feel Sam’s heartbeat pound inside his chest, the muscle and bone of him shift against Dean. The hot, hard line of his cock pressed up against Dean’s, hands pulling Dean in closer. Dean works Sam out of his jacket, grabs the hem of Sam’s shirt and pulls it up over Sam’s chest, yanking it over his head.

There’s miles of skin spread out underneath him, and Dean knows how to touch it, knows where to put his hands, his mouth, his tongue; where to bite and where to tease. Women…people… are all different, the ways they like it, but there are a few spots that are tried and true.

Dean blots out the thought that this is Sam and leans down, craning his neck. He opens his mouth, closes it around the pulse pounding in his brother’s throat, teeth sinking deep and releasing before his tongue flashes between, lips closing and sucking hard.

Dean doesn’t know what he was expecting, but he’s pretty sure the sane part of him didn’t think it would be _this_ ; Sam tilting his head back, hips bucking, body shivering underneath him.

So… that spot works for Sam, too.

Fuck, this is weird.

“Sam…” Dean shakes his head, mouth dragging against Sam’s skin.

“Don’t even,” Sam breathes, fingers closing on the back of Dean’s hair, slipping and trying to fist through the short strands, yanking Dean closer, neck arching, shoving against Dean’s mouth.

Dean hesitates for another fraction of a second, and Sam chuckles, chest reverberating against Dean’s. “Pussy,” he adds, and Dean can _see_ his grin, even though he’s not looking at Sam’s face.

Oh, this is _so_ fucking _on_.

Dean slides lower, teeth closing around Sam’s nipple, nipping and sucking, his hand yanking Sam’s head back even further. And just like a great big girl, Sam twists underneath him, breathing out hard and moaning. Dean smiles, teeth scissoring back and forth lightly, and Sam practically fucking _dies_ underneath him. Christ he’s _noisy_.

He rakes his other hand down Sam’s side, nails scraping over the skin, tightens his mouth and sucks _hard_ , and Sam grabs him tight around the back of the head. “Fucking slut,” Dean accuses, ripping his head from Sam’s grasp.

He goes lower, sliding his mouth down Sam’s stomach, every muscle standing out like it’s just _waiting_ for Dean to lick and bite. It’s so fucking _easy_ , winding Sam up, like any other time he’s had sex.

Dean works his mouth down between Sam’s hips as his fingers move, popping the button on Sam’s jeans, tearing the zipper open. He grabs tight, tears the vee of Sam’s jeans even lower, gliding his mouth along the inner crease of Sam’s thigh and biting down hard. Sam’s whole body convulses underneath him, and Dean grins around the skin. 

Yeah, he’s good at this; male or female—not like he ever doubted.

He is _Dean Winchester_ , after all, and if there’s anything he’s good at besides hunting? It’s this. 

Dean yanks Sam’s pants down past his ankles and away, throwing them against the motel room floor. 

Damn. It’s not like he didn’t already know Sam was big from the glances they’ve gotten at each other over the years, but Christ, when he’s _hard_ … Not like Dean’s any slouch—what Sam’s got in length, Dean more than makes up for in girth, and his length’s not so slouchy either. Dean’s never sucked a cock in his entire life, but he doesn’t give a _fuck_ right now; he can do this, too. He licks a slow line up the center of Sam’s dick, and it tastes like a little more than skin, but not bad, not bad at all.

Sam shudders and twists, hands gripping the back of Dean’s head like he knows he really shouldn’t, but does anyway.

Dean knows what feels good to him... all he has to do is suck a little, tongue pushing up underneath the head where he _knows_ it feels like heaven, and Sam’s fingers clutch, tearing at him, begging for more.

“Fucking _slut_ ,” Dean proclaims again. He opens his mouth and slides his head down, taking Sam as deep as he can before sucking up to the tip and playing there. It’s wet and sloppy, and it takes him a few tries before he figures out that he needs to keep sucking the whole time, whether he’s moving up or down. Once he gets that, it only makes sense to keep his head still and thrust with his neck while he sucks, letting his lips and tongue do everything else. Sam’s hips jerk against the thrusts and pulls of Dean’s mouth, nails scraping the back of Dean’s skull, his brother spewing out every profanity Dean’s ever heard. Dean sucks harder and puts a hand on Sam’s belly to hold him still; Sam always was a squirmer.

Dean experiments, twisting his head a little with each downward stroke, tongue dragging up the underside, suckling the head before he starts the whole rhythm all over again. 

“Shit,” Sam hisses, and Dean understands that instantly as guy-code for ‘I’m gonna come’. Dean yanks his mouth away and uses his hand instead, watching Sam thrust into his palm, spilling thick streaks all over his own stomach, head thrown back, fingers clutching the sheets now instead of Dean’s head. Sam keeps coming, veins standing out in his neck like cords, whole body stiff, making more noise than most of the girls Dean’s ever been with. Sam’s completely unrepentant, not holding back even a little. 

Dean would never have guessed. _Sam_ writhing against the sheets, eyes closed, practically biting through his own lip, completely losing his shit.

Dean keeps jerking his wrist after Sam’s done, squeezing with his fingers; he knows how to jerk off, how to milk aftershocks for the most. He runs the palm of his other hand across Sam’s belly, sliding against wetness, rolling his fingers in it as Sam’s stomach twitches violently. 

This, Dean thinks, pulling his hand away and sliding down it between Sam’s legs. This is the part that’ll be…

He shuts out the thought and nudges his forefinger against Sam. Sam hisses in a breath—and then he draws his knees up, breathing out slow.

Dean’s mouth goes dry all of the sudden and he sinks his teeth into his lower lip, letting the tip of his finger push inside Sam, just a little.

Sam’s reaction is instantaneous, hips bucking up off the bed, low moan reverberating through his body.

Sam’s burning hot inside, and so fucking _tight_. It doesn’t feel much different to the inside of a girl, ridges of muscle slicked with come clinging to him. Dean slides a little deeper, feels Sam lock down around him and then breathe, relaxing again. Dean slides his finger inside slowly, and when Sam’s taking him completely, arching and fucking back, Dean works in a second finger. 

It takes Sam a minute or so to get with the program, but when he does, he’s twisting and throwing his hips around like a total whore, face turned into the pillow, mouth open in steady stream of gasping breaths. Does it really… feel good? Dean wonders, and tries stretching his fingers apart, like he’s read about.

Sam’s whole body rises off the bed, and if the sounds coming out of him are any indication, yeah, that feels _really_ fucking _good_. Dean does it again, then again, and then a few more times, and when Sam finally sounds like he’s strangling on his own tongue with how good it feels, Dean realizes that he’s still hard as a rock, and getting his _cock_ inside that wet, tight, heat would feel a hell of lot better for _both_ of them. 

Dean sits up on his knees, pulls his fingers free and reaches for his wallet, fishing out a condom. He throws it on the bed and strips out of his clothes, and he _knows_ Sam’s watching him, and it’s… kind of surreal, but Dean’s never been shy. Hell, he’s about to fuck Sam anyway—doesn’t think he could stop if he wanted to—so if Sam wants to check out the scenery, let him.

Rolling the condom on is a practiced motion, but sliding his hand through the cooling come on Sam’s belly isn’t quite as practiced. But it’s just… a guy all wet instead of a girl. Not that different. He runs his hand up the length of his cock, grip slick against rubber, can’t help the flutter of his eyelids against the feel. 

Sam’s got his legs drawn up, and all Dean has to do is _lean_ … hands falling, braced on either side of Sam’s body… and _push_. Chests pressed together, Sam breathing out hard, staring up at Dean—

Dean lets his chin fall, biting at Sam’s neck again as he pushes, feels Sam’s body opening for him, so hot and tight, squeezing the head of his cock so hard that he has to bite back a groan. 

“Do it,” Sam whispers, hands closing over the small of Dean’s back. 

Dean closes his eyes, turns his face against Sam’s throat and wriggles his hips, heat of Sam’s body squeezing his cock like a vise as he slowly sinks, breathing out hard until he hits bottom. Bottom. He’s buried inside Sam… _Sam_. And he feels like maybe he needs to take a moment—but then Sam curls his heels in, nails digging into Dean’s ass.

Little fucker, Dean thinks, pulling his hips back, cock dragging out almost the edge, teasing at the rim, and he’s done this to girls so many times, it’s almost natural. Dean thrusts, hands closing around Sam’s shoulders and hold him still as Dean’s teeth sink into Sam’s chest. The skin between Dean’s teeth has a lot more muscle behind it than Dean’s used to feeling, but that just means Sam’s _tougher_ , that he can take _more_.

Dean twists his head, pulling at the skin as he curls his hips underneath him and drives deep again. Sam throws back his head, exposing more of his throat to Dean, gasping for air as his hips buck. Dean knows what a prostate is, and thanks to fanfic, he’s pretty sure he just fucking hit it.

He rocks back into Sam, keeping the same angle and speed as he twists his hips. Sam’s body rises, chest hitting Dean’s as he meets Dean in mid-thrust. They’re both sweating now, bodies sliding slick against each other, chests and hips out of synch, rhythm just out of reach. Dean curls his hips under again, reaching for that spot, feels a surge of satisfaction when Sam shudders, going still, and he takes advantage of the moment to grab Sam by the hip and hold him. He takes over the rhythm, drags out and fucks deep, a little faster, harder—wants to go a _lot_ faster and harder, but he’s pretty sure they’re gonna have to work up to that. Sweating, muscles straining, he drives in a little harder, a little faster with every stroke, bites his lip against the feel of the friction, Sam’s body pulling, tugging at his cock. 

“I’m not a girl, Dean,” Sam whispers, hands clenching against the muscles of Dean’s ass. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

His thumb’s digging into the hollow of Sam’s hip so hard that it’s got to be hurting Sam, other hand gripping Sam’s shoulder, face buried in Sam’s neck, Sam’s hair sticking and clinging to him as he rocks back and slams into Sam, bodies meeting with a jolt. Sam groans, and he lifts his legs, wraps them around Dean’s waist like a girl. It’s a little… awkward--Sam’s legs are so fucking long he could probably wrap them around Dean twice--but it _does_ give Dean a better angle. He puts both hands on Sam’s shoulders and lifts his body up, cock slamming, twisting into Sam until Sam’s pushing up off the bed, body stiff, hands moving all over Dean, grabbing at him, slipping off Dean’s skin.

He can feel Sam’s dick against his stomach as he thrusts, hard all over again, and he reaches down between them, fucks Sam even harder as he gets his fingers around Sam’s cock. Sam’s skin is sticky with drying come, and it makes jerking him off a little more of a challenge, but Dean corkscrews his hips and squeezes, and that’s all it takes. Sam clamps down on Dean’s cock so hard that Dean almost sees stars, orgasm rushing him with furious intensity.

 _This part isn’t going in the Gospel, Chuck_ , Dean thinks, driving into his brother _hard_ as he comes.

*

Far away, Chuck wakes from dreaming in a cold sweat. He draws a shaky breath and reaches for the bottle instead of the glass.

*

Dean’s still lying there, breathing hard and sweating against Sam, Sam panting just as hard. Dean finally pulls out and pulls off the condom, tossing it aside, and he should really _move_ , go sleep in his own bed where it’s not full of sweaty, sprawled out Sam. But Dean’s had a long night, and he barely manages to finish the thought before he falls asleep right there. 

*

When he wakes up in the morning, face stuck to Sam’s chest, he’s not nearly as horrified as he’d expect to be. 

He thinks about that for a few seconds before he moves, and assesses that he’s probably eighty-percent less freaked out than he’d have expected to be.

Which is just… weird. The _lack_ of weirdness is weird, all by itself. He… fucked his _brother_. This should be a life altering experience. This should be something they never talk about, ever. This should be that pile of dirt swept under the rug that still looks like a big fucking pile of dirt swept under the rug even if everyone pretends not to see it. Winchesters are experts at ignoring dirt under the rug, after all. 

At least, they were until they discovered fanfiction, Dean thinks and sighs. Which, admittedly, is probably why he’s not having such a problem with this. If there was ever a preparation guide to having gay sex with your brother…

Screw it. That’s enough thinking for this early in the morning.

Dean pushes up slowly, grimacing as his stomach peels away from the dried come between them.

And he doesn’t feel weird about this except for how it’s not weird, _why_? 

His head hurts. He needs coffee, and a shower. But Sam wakes up, instead, eyes blinking, body stretching underneath him. 

“It’s morning?” Sam asks, like he’s confused by the light in the room.

Dean swallows hard, naked body still pressed against his brother’s, and nods. “Yeah.”

Sam grumbles, turning his face into the pillow. “I need at least another hour of sleep.”

He says it like Dean isn’t naked and on top of him, like they didn’t just have sex last night. And Dean’s… really _fine_ with that.

“Okay,” he says. “You sleep. I’m… gonna go shower.” 

Sam nods and turns deeper into the pillow, murmuring, “Save me some hot water.”

*

Dean dries off, still waiting for the weirdness of it all to hit him. He should feel guilty but he doesn’t. What he’s feeling is something else all together. He’s still wondering when incest became just another thing for them to accept—like hunting monsters and demons and saving the world. This whole thing… it doesn’t feel all fucked up like it should, and that’s kinda fucked up all by itself. It seems… too easy, and Dean can’t help the feeling in the pit of his stomach that’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Dean’s just walking out of the bathroom, settling the towel tuck around his waist when he almost runs into Sam, who’s… still naked. Okay. That’s… kind of different.

It should be even _weirder_ that Sam turns towards Dean, pushing Dean against the wall and falling to his knees against the motel carpet. It _should_ be, Dean knows, but… Sam sucks his way down Dean’s stomach to the line of the towel and everything that’s like rational thought vaporizes on contact. Sam bites at the edge of skin, hands tugging the towel apart, and Dean tilts his head back against the wall.

If Sam wants to suck Dean’s cock, Dean’s sure as hell not going to stop him. He can’t shake the feeling that he probably _should_ , but hell, he’s already fucked Sam… how much worse can this be?

Sam licks his way up the center of Dean’s cock, and it’s wet and sloppy and messy and kind of amateur, even if it’s turning Dean on. And then, Sam tongues against the underside of the head, and Dean jolts against the wall, hips shoving forward with a distinctive “oh hell _yes_ ” motion. Hot, smooth lips wrapping around the head of his cock and _sucking_ , tonguing against the slit before sliding lower, pushing against that spot under the head as his mouth closes like a vise.

“Fuck _and_ yes,” Dean groans, fingers gripping hard against the line of Sam’s jaw.

Sam makes a satisfied sound that leaves Dean with no choice except to shove his hips into Sam’s mouth as Sam sinks down. Sam barely flinches, takes Dean as deep as he can go, and then pulls back, sucking hard.

“You’ve done this before,” Dean manages to growl.

Sam shakes his head, and that does… really interesting things to Dean’s dick. Mouth sucking, pulling and tonguing, fingers on Dean’s hips, and _fuck_ , it feels _good_. He can’t stop himself from pushing deeper, fingers curling in his brother’s hair, and Sam doesn’t really seem to mind at all.

“Fuck… Sam…” he groans, hands fisting in Sam’s hair, trying to pull him back. Sam just sucks even harder, and Dean has to look away, because it’s… too much… watching Sam suck his cock, and the way it feels—

He shoves forward, and Sam does something with his tongue that Dean can’t even track, belly and balls tightening, feeling rushing up into his stomach as he loses all control of his own body, coming in long, sharp bursts as he fucks his little brother’s mouth, Sam sucking and squeezing and swallowing all around his cock. _Swallowing_ , and Dean feels another intense burst of pleasure hit him, whole body arching against the wall.

Dean’s still panting, leaning against the wall when Sam pulls away, wiping at his mouth.

“So,” Sam says, rising to his feet and looking at Dean. “I was thinking omelets?”

Dean stares at Sam for a few long seconds before he finally says, “Yeah,” clearing his throat. “I could do an omelet.”

*

Sam goes for a shower and Dean pulls on his clothes, brain still swimming from the surprise head he just got. He knows he should feel bad, but mostly he just feels a little weak in the knees as he steps into his jeans. Sam’s… obviously okay with this, and Dean thinks that should probably make him feel even worse… but… it doesn’t. 

_Look at us, Sam_.

Maybe the fans had it right all along. Maybe this was always the next step.

Sam’s laptop is still sitting out on the table, and Dean rolls his t-shirt over his head, tugging them hem down around his waist, considering it for a few seconds.

He sits down, intending to check his Gmail account really quickly. The first message he clicks is from one very helpful fan who’s sent him a list of links to their idea of the ‘sexiest Sam/Dean fics’ and he ends up on LiveJournal instead, reading porn for the next twenty minutes. This one has Dean topping and it’s… not half bad. Actually… it’s pretty fucking _good_ he thinks, leaning closer to the screen.

The water shuts off in the bathroom and Dean quickly clears the history and cookies, shutting the window.

He settles on the bed with one of the novels, opening it randomly and trying to look engrossed. He’s not even sure which one he’s looking at. Sam comes out a couple minutes later, naked except for the towel around his waist, and Dean glances up, not able to think about anything besides…

Sam bends over, reaching for his back pack and sitting it on the bed, leaning as he rifles through it, looking for clothes.

Dean still can’t think about anything but porn, and it really isn’t his fault that Sam’s nearly naked and leaning over like that.

Dean closes the book and lets it drop, rising to his feet. He moves up behind his brother, grips Sam’s hips through the terrycloth towel and turns him around. He isn’t sure what Sam’s expression will be, or what Sam might say, so he dives for Sam’s mouth instead, avoiding both problems completely by getting straight to the point. Sam doesn’t seem to mind; mouth opening eagerly with the taste of toothpaste as Dean sinks his tongue inside, and if Sam’s body language is any indication, the way he’s rocking his hips into Dean’s is a dead giveaway that he’s not hating it. Dean kisses him hard and deep, pulls the towel from Sam’s waist and pushes his brother down onto the bed. 

It’s different this time, and Dean doesn’t much know or care why—he just knows it’s better; Sam arching underneath him, all razor-edged hipbones, sleek hard muscle and hot mouth. Their arms and hands get in each other’s way as they pull and tug at each other, Sam’s knee digging into Dean’s hip before Dean grabs his brother by the kneecap and shoves Sam’s leg down against the bed, hips rocking into Sam’s.

He puts his hands on Sam’s chest and slides down, licking his lips before he sucks the head of Sam’s cock inside his mouth. Sam moans and twitches, hands locking around the back of Dean’s head as he groans out a curse.

It’s still kind of surreal to have a cock in his mouth, but it’s Sam, and considering the magic Sam just worked on him a little bit ago… well, there’s no way he’s letting his little brother show him up. 

Dean takes his time, sucking slow and dirty, tonguing everywhere on the way down until he’s sure he knows every single spot that makes Sam squirm and writhe and hiss, until Sam’s delirious, practically begging as he sweats into the sheets. By then, Dean’s hard as a rock all over again, and he slicks two of his fingers until they’re glistening wet with spit, sliding them inside Sam while he clamps his lips tight around the head of Sam’s cock, tonguing at the slit. 

“Oh my fucking _God_.” The words squeeze out through Sam’s throat, raw and tight, whole body clenching around Dean’s fingers, hips rocking just a little to take them deeper. Sam’s enjoying the hell out of this, and Dean pushes his fingers as far apart as they’ll go inside of Sam, twisting his hand in a half-circle. He slides his mouth wet and messy down the length of Sam’s dick and starts pumping his fingers in and out of his brother, fingers stretching, reaching to find that spot that makes Sam’s whole body shudder and struggle to breathe.

He lets his fingertips rub, playing across it as he finds it, sucking hard to the tip, and has to put his other hand against Sam’s stomach, pressing him against the bed to hold him still. It’s not _that_ different from going down on a girl, fingers seeking out the sweet spot inside and teasing it, mouth sealed and sucking where it feels best before sliding away, licking and tonguing and drawing out the pleasure.

Dean twists his wrist and presses up inside of Sam, thumb brushing behind his brother’s sac, and Sam jolts like he got struck by lightning, so Dean does it again, thumb sliding across the sweaty skin. Sam bucks helplessly into Dean’s mouth, shoving a little deeper than Dean’s ready to take him, and Dean’s thumb tightens down, fingers curling as his throat convulses around the head of Sam’s cock. Sam’s whole body locks down tight and he comes with a muffled shout before Dean can pull off, bitter salt filling his mouth. It doesn’t taste as horrible as he would have thought, but it’s still not all that great, and hell, it’s too late now. He pulls back so he doesn’t choke himself and swallows fast, fingers fucking Sam even harder as he sucks, and Sam’s whole body jerks, convulsing all around Dean before his cock twitches out another hot, wet burst.

“Motherfucking…” Sam groans, twisting, word trailing off into an unintelligible moan.

Dean has his doubts about how much that should be turning him on, but his body sure as hell doesn’t, and he holds the rest of Sam’s come in his mouth, the last few spurts until Sam’s relaxing, body going limp against the bed. Dean yanks his fingers out of Sam and reaches down, unbuttons and unzips his jeans. He pulls his cock free and then gets his wallet out, tearing at it to get the condom free. He rolls it on, pulling his mouth away to spit into his hand, slicking his cock quick and fast. He slides up between Sam’s legs and it takes him a few tries before Sam pulls his legs up, and yeah, there. He slides inside Sam, Sam’s body hardly resisting the push of his hips at all, wet hand wrapping around his brother’s dick and jerking him through the last few sputtering aftershocks. Sam’s burning up inside, squeezing him so tight, muscles quivering and clenching around Dean, and Dean hits the edge quick and hard, orgasm rushing and smashing him like a tidal wave, nails digging deep furrows into his brother’s hips, teeth nearly slicing through his own bottom lip as he comes in quick, ragged bursts.

Dean’s face feels glued to Sam’s shoulder, body boneless and spent, sweating out against his brother’s skin as he tries to catch his breath.

Fuck. It shouldn’t be… like _this_? Should it? Because this… this is pretty fucking _good_. 

There’s got to be something… nothing ever happens for them without complications.

“I… still… want… omelets,” Sam pants, breathing in hot, sharp exclamations against Dean’s cheek.

As complications go, Dean feels like that’s one he can work with.

*

They’re driving through the main strip of downtown when Dean finally says, “I’m still not gay.”

Sam squints at him and cocks his head to the side. 

“I don’t like guys,” Dean adds.

“Dean,” Sam says, in his patented ‘how can you be so retarded?’ voice. “ I _am_ a guy.”

“You don’t count. You’re my brother.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, shaking his head as his eyes widen a little in disbelief. “That changes everything.”

“Damned right. It’s completely different.”

“And here I thought we were gonna make it through this without you having a meltdown,” Sam sighs.

“I’m not having a meltdown,” Dean snaps. “You and me… that… makes a twisted kind of sense, right? We… do everything together, breathe the same fucking air twenty-four seven. Might as well take the next step, right? Still doesn’t mean I like guys.”

Sam rolls his eyes, tonguing at his cheek. “Okay.”

“Good.”

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

No one’s serving breakfast anymore except the “Waffle House” down the street from the last diner they try, and Dean manages to get Sam to accept waffles as a poor substitute for good omelets.

They drive north for a while with no real destination until they stop for lunch. They pick out a little Italian place along the side of the road and park. The restaurant is quiet and dimly lit inside, lots of red and hanging plants. They weave through the tables without a word, both of them picking up menus as they slide into a booth. Dean loads up on pasta and teases Sam about eating his spaghetti with a spoon until Sam tosses a meatball at him. The meatball sticks to the fork a bit too long before it releases, and it falls a couple feet short of hitting Dean. Dean rescues it from the table and pops it into his mouth.

“Let’s catch a movie,” Dean says as they’re finishing up and paying the bill. 

“Yeah?” Sam asks, tilting his head to the side to look at Dean. He looks almost surprised by Dean’s offer, and hopeful in a way that makes Dean want to squirm.

He flashes Sam a smile instead, tucking the credit card back into his wallet. “ _Wolverine_ opens today. We could beat the crowds, catch the early show.”

“You wanna go see _Wolverine_?”

“How many times have I watched _The Last Stand_?” Dean asks as he pushes the door to the restaurant open.

“Only because you think the red-head is hot.” Sam smirks, squinting against the sunlight as they step outside.

Dean shrugs, head tilting in agreement. There’s really nothing like a hot chick in skin-tight clothes that can kick anyone’s ass. “But Wolverine’s still a badass. Besides, I could use some mindless violence to take the edge off things.”

Sam thinks for a second then nods. “Yeah, okay.”

The fact that Dean’s still stuffed full of food from the restaurant doesn’t stop him from ordering two gigantic sodas and an enormous bag of popcorn that he proceeds to load down with ‘butter’ until it’s dripping. Sam frowns, mildly disgusted while he watches Dean pour salt on top of the gleaming mess, and Dean plucks a piece of popcorn from the top and flicks it at Sam, leaving a smear of oil across Sam’s cheek. 

Sam blinks, and then smiles despite himself, shaking his head. “Asshole,” he says without conviction.

Dean feels better than he has in a while as they walk into the theater and pick out seats in the center near the front. He doesn’t even mind Sam’s pointy elbows knocking into him the entire time, and smirks when Sam finally gives in and digs into the popcorn bag for a fistful.

The movie’s pretty kick ass as far as action and violence goes, and Dean’s thoroughly satisfied by the time the lights come up.

“That movie broke every law of physics known to man,” Sam says as they move with the crowd out of the theater.

“It’s a comic book movie, Sam. Don’t over-think it.”

They’re shuffling along with the throng of people filing out, shoulders bumping against each other, and it’s not until they’re almost to the car that Dean notices Sam’s still close in his space, shoulder nudging Dean’s. There’s no crowd pushing them against each other this far out in the parking lot. It’s a little bit odd, but Dean doesn’t really mind.

*

They drive through Devil’s Tower, Wyoming because Dean fucking _refuses_ to stop anywhere named Devil’s Tower, screw that they’re driving slowly with no destination. They stop half an hour later in the next place that can be called a town, somewhere called Hulett. The motel is nice and anonymous, just another old, brick motel with peeling, tacky seventies wallpaper and two queen beds.

Dean settles his stuff in on the side of his bed, watching as Sam does the same by the other bed. They’re both a little awkward, a little off, and Dean’s first instinct is to ignore it. He’s really good at that—he could take home the gold in the ‘ignoring the elephant in the room’ event. But there’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that…

Dean’s used to feeling uneasy; he’s gotten good at ignoring that, too. You have to when it’s the Winchester way of life. The funny thing, the thing he’s just now noticing, is that he’s feeling the uneasiness creep _in_. Usually it’s just _there_. And it couldn’t come _back_ unless… When did it leave? And why didn’t he notice?

Whatever.

Sam’s still digging through his bag, and Dean doesn’t want this to get all fucking weird. He’s not really sure how this all works now, but it’s not like he’s ever let that get in his way before. 

“Sam.” 

Sam stops fidgeting with his bag and slowly turns to look at him. 

Dean walks around the bed and between the two queens, stepping up to Sam. “Do we…” Dean stops, lifting his jaw towards the ceiling before he meets his brother’s eyes head on. “Do we need to talk about this?”

Sam just looks at him for a long time, so long that Dean wishes he’d never asked the fucking question, because _Christ_ , it’s a pretty simple one as questions go, and Sam’s acting like it’s the Spanish Fucking Inquisition.

“Only if it involves omelets,” Sam finally answers, mouth pulling in a slow smirk.

The gnawing in Dean’s belly settles. “You and your fucking omelets.” Dean shakes his head as he rolls his eyes. “Fine. Tomorrow.”

“So what about now?” Sam asks, intent on Dean.

Dean pushes Sam back against the bed and proceeds to show him.

*

They fuck all night and fall asleep so late that they don’t make it anywhere near omelets the next morning. It’s almost eleven when Dean wakes up, half-hard with the need to piss. He slips on his pants and takes care of the urge quickly, opening his eyes only as much as necessary. 

When he walks back out of the bathroom, he takes a quick glance and sees Sam lying naked on his stomach, sheets thrown down around his thighs, one leg drawn up, his arms buried under the pillow. 

He looks like an invitation.

*

They stop long enough to order food for a late lunch. They make a pretense of turning on the TV, both of them in their jeans, leaning heavily over the cartons, and they barely manage eat before they both collapse into a sex-coma side by side. 

When Dean wakes up again, it’s because Sam is sucking his cock, long swirls of his tongue up the center vein, mouth locked firm and hard around the length as he sucks and pulls. Dean pushes his fingers into his brother’s hair and pulls him in tight, riding Sam’s mouth from the bottom, hips bucking until he comes, hands twisting and pulling at Sam’s head. Dean doesn’t have much to give, cock pulsing out hot, empty bursts of pleasure. Sam sucks him through every single last aftershock, until Dean’s quivering and boneless against the bed. He grabs at Sam with clumsy hands, tugs Sam up next to him and locks his fingers around Sam’s long, hard cock, stroking him slow and lazy until Sam’s whole body rolls against him, weak streaks of come striping Dean’s hip and stomach before they give out, Sam shuddering empty into Dean’s fist.

Sam finally quivers and goes still, and Dean takes a deep breath, turns his head and braces for the truth.

The clock on the night stand reads 8:30pm.

Damn. It’s late as fuck for doing _anything_ useful. Except for eating dinner. He’s _really_ hungry.

“We should… order pizza,” Dean says.

Sam nods weakly against Dean’s chest, and shit, he’s probably about to pass out and start drooling all over Dean. Dean sighs and reaches for the phone.

*

The smell of food manages to wake Sam up, and they eat a few slices while they watch some fucking _completely_ insane movie. They both fall asleep on either side of the pizza box instead of inside it, and thank God for _that_ Dean thinks as he wakes at 3:17am, because that would be a _really_ stupid way to die.

He shuts off the TV with the remote and glances at the completely un-slept in bed next to them. He thinks he should probably go sleep there. But he’s way too tired to move anymore, much less get up. He should stay close to Sam, anyway, he thinks as his head falls against the bed. After all, the pizza is a definite hazard, with the box lid hanging open, and he doesn’t want his brother to accidentally suffocate in extra cheese overnight.

*

The next morning, they’re both recovered, but Sam still wants omelets, so they set out right away to find a place before breakfast time is over.

They find a diner in pretty quick order, and their waitress is… stupid drop-dead hot, big blue eyes and long dark hair, shiny pink lips, and tits and an ass so round and perky they might as well stand up and salute. Dean checks out the scenery while Sam gives her his order.

“House omelet with a side of bacon—make it a double side,” he adds, flashing her a smile as he hands her back the menu.

The omelet is perfect; diced tomatoes, onions, chives, mushrooms, and peppers all through eggs cooked to fluffy yellow perfection. Dean takes a bite, following it with a bite of bacon, and groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted while he chews, eyes fluttering with pleasure.

Sam’s staring at him, his own fork paused halfway to his mouth, bit of egg dangling from the tines.

“What?” Dean asks, gruff as he swallows and washes down the bite with gulp of coffee.

Sam just shrugs in that light, almost careless way, brows rising a notch as he glances away, mouth turning in on itself. Sam’s got _thousands_ of moody looks in his arsenal, and sometimes Dean wishes he didn’t know them all inside out. Sometimes he thinks it’s amazing that his brain can _catalog_ them all—it’s a lot of information—but it can, and it does, and he recognizes this one, too. Thing is, it could mean a couple of different things. 

“You feeling inadequate compared to the omelet?” Dean grins as he shoves another forkful of his omelet into his mouth, and chews, humming.

“I just can’t believe you’re still sitting here.” Sam cuts his eyes to the side with a deliberate look at something before looking back at Dean meaningfully. 

Dean swivels his head towards the counter and sees their waitress checking him out, gleam in her eyes like a free pass to any kind of naughtiness he can imagine. He _could_ … and she’s definitely _smoking_ hot… but she’s not a quickie in the bathroom type, he can tell. She’d wanna go to dinner, maybe a movie, then back to her place, and Dean would have to pretend to work for it before she’d let him kiss her and _then_ she’d probably go all wildcat on him, but…

“Too much like work,” Dean shrugs, looking down at his plate as he cuts off another piece of omelet.

*

Sam’s still eyeing him all weird as they get into the car.

“What?” Dean demands, voice sharp as he turns the keys in the ignition.

“Too much like work?” Sam asks. 

Yeah. Dean’s been regretting that for the last twenty minutes; ever since Sam started looking at him like he was a pod-person.

“I’m just saying… this…” Dean makes a motion with his hand to encompass ‘this’. “It’s convenient.” Dean adds the words ‘you _girl_ ’ with a roll of his eyes.

Sam’s still looking way too smug. “More convenient than ‘Miss I Should Have ‘Made-of-Plastic’ Stamped on My Ass’?”

“Do _you_ wanna take her out?” Dean levels his eyes on Sam, hand pausing on the gear shift.

Sam blinks. “No. But that’s because I’m not _interested_.” Sam pauses, looking out the front window of the Impala as his tongue curls against the inside of his cheek. “Not because I’m _gay_.”

“I am not _gay_ ,” Dean snaps, knuckles turning white against the gear shift, eyes narrowing to slits as he looks at Sam.

“Too. Much. Like. Work,” Sam repeats, slowly and distinctly, like Dean might be slow catching on.

“I am so kicking your ass when we get back to the room,” Dean mutters, slamming the car into reverse.

“Wouldn’t that be too much like work?” Sam smirks.

“No. _That_ , I’m gonna do for _fun_ ,” Dean growls, throwing the car into gear and smashing on the gas pedal.

*

They’re barely inside the doorway when Dean shoves Sam against the wall, fisting his hands in the shoulders of Sam’s shirt, their mouths meeting in a violent collision. Dean throws his weight behind it, both their bodies jolting with the impact before Dean jerks his weight into Sam again, pinning him to the wall. They’re pressed chest to chest, stomach to stomach, tight up against each other, Dean pushing a knee between Sam’s legs as he slides his tongue deeper. He can feel how hard Sam is already, rubbing his thigh against the thick, hot line of Sam’s cock, and he swallows the sound Sam makes, smirking into the kiss.

It’s still nothing like kissing a girl; Sam’s body is too hard against him, chin too stubbly, whole body trying too goddamned hard to lead. Sam may be a guy, but there is one bonus to a guy fucking another guy; they’re both always up for it whenever the other wants it. 

He grabs Sam tighter, turns them around as he breathes in deep, teeth seizing Sam’s tongue and holding, Sam’s whole body freezing before Dean releases him completely, hands shoving Sam backwards towards the bed.

Sam staggers a few steps back, eyes dark and fiery, but he doesn’t fall, and Dean shoves him again.

Sam stares up at him for a split second, eyes challenging, and Dean yanks off his shirt, tossing it before he falls down on top of Sam. The breath leaves both their bodies with a muffled sound into each other mouths, but neither of them seems to mind much, tongues tangling and fighting as they tear at each other’s clothes.

They’re both naked inside of a few minutes, Dean’s body sliding up, mouth catching at his brother’s collarbone, cock dragging against Sam’s. The friction sends shudders through both of them, Sam’s knuckles curling, nails sinking into Dean’s back, and Dean thrusts again, Sam gasping into his mouth. 

“Thought you were gonna kick my ass?”

“‘Kick’ might’ve been a broad interpretation,” Dean breathes back, pressing his left forearm across Sam’s chest and throwing his weight behind it, pinning Sam. Dean doesn’t waste any time; shoves each of Sam’s legs up along his sides, slicks the fingers of his free hand and slides them inside. Sam’s burning up inside, body squirming underneath Dean, and Dean groans as he feels his fingers sink in with hardly any resistance. Sam arches, hips thrusting back against Dean’s hand, and Dean twists his fingers, stretching them apart. He watches Sam’s face contort and then looks down between them, sees the muscles in Sam’s thighs spasm and then stiffen, whole body straining with the sudden pleasure, cock hard and flushed between his legs. Pink rim glistening, wrapped around his fingers, Sam’s body clinging as he moves, like it doesn’t want to let go.

“See… you’re not work. You’re a total whore for this,” Dean whispers, voice rough as he turns his fingers inside Sam, pressing up into the sweet spot he knows is _right there_. “So fucking _easy_.”

It should bother him more, how easy this is for _him_ , how easy it feels—in fact, it should be so fucking disturbing that he should be curled up in a ball in the corner somewhere. But Hell pretty much took that out of him, and the way Sam’s moaning and grinding into his hand obliterates any lingering doubts he should be having right now. 

“Go ahead,” Sam breathes, tilting his face back, eyes fluttering shut, hips rocking into Dean’s hand. Sam’s muscles clench around Dean before he spits the rest of the words out. “Prove your… not-gayness by… fucking me.”

“You are such a shit,” Dean hisses, pulling his fingers out of Sam. He takes his time rolling the condom on, stroking slickness down the length, and smirks as he watches Sam squirm.

“Just because you’re so easy…” Dean grips his cock, sliding lube up the length, eyes fluttering at the feel, “doesn’t mean I’m gay.” Sam’s body hot and wanting underneath him, ass arching back into the tip of Dean’s dick. “Why work for it, Sammy?” Dean lines his hips up between Sam’s, easing forward just a little, watching Sam’s eyes fall closed, hips straining against the head of Dean’s cock. “When I know…” Biting at his brother’s lower lip, and this should be wrong, but it doesn’t _feel_ wrong. “You’ll spread your legs for me…” Cock pushing inside the hot tightness of his brother’s body, rim gripping Dean so fucking _hard_ , “every...” thrusts his hips and shoves, “single…” nails cutting deep between muscle and between bone, “fucking _time_?” he growls, hips dragging out fast and slamming back in.

Sam’s whole body rocks with the thrust; fingernails catching against Dean’s skin and slicing, sudden sharp flare of pain sending his hips surging forward again. Sam’s head falls back against the pillow, eyes rolling back in his head as Dean thrusts up and in against Sam’s sweet spot. He’ll probably never stop thinking how this _should_ be _so_ wrong, but Jesus fucking Christ, Sam’s clamped all around him, long legs and arms clutching at Dean, hips rising to take him. So sleek and hot and tight and fuck, the helpless, breathy noises Sam’s making into his mouth are seriously turning him on.

He drills into Sam, riding him at breakneck speed, forearm holding his brother against the bed. That doesn’t stop Sam’s hips from grinding, corkscrewing, whole body writhing under Dean, fingers sunk deep in the lines of muscle along Dean’s spine. Sam bucks, trying to match Dean’s sharp thrusts, and Dean dips his head and bites Sam’s throat, fingers sliding in sweat as he pins his brother’s hip down. He speeds the pace of his hips, bracing his weight and fucking Sam mercilessly hard until Sam’s body is jolting, shaking, Dean’s weight slamming into Sam again and again before the last shock wave can settle, and finally Sam stops struggling underneath him.

“Knew you’d… see it… my way.” The words leave Dean in ragged gasps, and he leans his weight forward against his brother’s chest, teeth seizing Sam’s exposed throat as Dean fucks him with ruthless brutality. Fuck, the friction is glorious, Sam’s body squeezing him tight, and Dean knows he’s not going to be able to hold out long. He goes for broke, putting a last burst of strength and speed into his thrusts, and Sam arches under Dean’s weight, crying out. He has to slow down just a little when he lets go of Sam’s hip, driving in and out with deep, sharp bursts as he wraps his hand around his brother’s cock.

Sam comes instantaneously, shooting hot and wet all over their bellies and chests, muscles clamping down around Dean’s cock so hard that it rips through him like a jagged bolt of lightning, leaves him grunting and burying himself deep as he comes, Sam’s body fluttering and convulsing, squeezing him so _tight_. He thrusts hard and deep a few more times, teeth tearing away from Sam’s throat, every muscle in his body coiling with strain and pleasure, sinking to the bottom and pushing in just a little more. Sam spurts, cock twitching one last time, strangled cry leaving his brother’s throat, body flexing around Dean’s cock, and Dean groans back, one last burst pulled from him, so intense he can see colors bloom behind his eyelids. 

“Fucking… Christ…” Dean pants, collapsing against Sam’s chest.

Sam makes some kind of noise that sounds vaguely like words, and goes limp underneath Dean.

It’s a few minutes before either of them can move, and Dean finally pulls out and rolls over, peeling the sticky condom from his dick. He ties the end into a knot and throws it in the motel trash can, and then thinks he should probably get up, because… it’s kinda weird to just stay here, and he needs to clean up, anyway.

He moves to the bathroom and rinses off in the sink. When he comes back out into the room, Sam’s got the covers pulled up to his waist and his finger on the remote, flicking through the channels. Dean considers the other bed for a second, and then falls in alongside Sam, pulling the bedspread up to just below his chest.

He takes one look at the talk-show Sam’s paused to watch and reaches for the remote. _That_ scuffle ends up on the floor, tangled in blankets, Dean emerging triumphant from the flowered covers, remote held aloft. He yanks the covers back up onto the bed and grins at Sam as he settles in, going straight for the sci-fi channel.

“Come on, Sam, it’s horror movie weekend. What else are we gonna watch?”

*

Sam watches begrudgingly for the first half an hour, arms folded deliberately over his chest, and then, around the time Stupid Blonde Girl #3 grabs a flickering flashlight and ventures into the basement to investigate the strange noise, Sam laughs.

“What?” Dean asks, admiring the curves of the girl’s ass under her incredibly short red dress.

“It’s just… we _are_ her.” Sam motions at the screen. “We’re the stupid people in horror movies that go _towards_ the obvious monster. Without the high heels.”

“And the utter dumbness,” Dean agrees.

“So _why_ are we watching this, again?” Sam asks.

“Because, it’s entertaining.” When Sam shoots him a ‘how stupid are you?’ look, he adds, “Hot blondes in high heels and dresses. Monsters.”

Sam keeps staring and Dean shrugs. “I never said I was deep.”

*

They sit through that movie, and then through _Hell Night_ , MSTK’ing the whole thing. When the credits roll, Dean glances over at Sam, sees those pensive, brooding shoulders and face and takes a deep breath.

“What?”

“I was just… thinking about Lilith,” Sam says, shaking his head slightly.

“What about her?”

“Wondering where she is… what she’s planning.”

Dean twists his jaw to the side, teeth catching, grinding against each other. “You really think she’s coming back?”

“I know she will.” Sam’s so sure, so completely and utterly _sure_.

Dean thinks about that, thinks about how he could argue it. He moves, rolling over on top of Sam, lunging quick and hard. They’re both still naked, and Sam’s body feels good underneath him, skin and muscle, heart pounding a staccato rhythm against Dean’s. 

“Then let’s enjoy the vacation while it lasts.”

*

Afterwards, they’re side by side again, TV pumping out horror movie screams. Dean’s watching the screen, contemplating Stupid Blonde Girl With No Flashlight And Even Less Brains with her little black dress and muscular thighs when he realizes he hasn’t even looked at a computer in _days_. Funny how quickly he forgot about the porn once they started making their own.

“So how much fanfic did you read?”

Sam shifts against his pillow, clearing his throat. “Why?”

“Don’t go getting shy on me _now_ ,” Dean says, sarcastic and wry. He mutes the volume on the TV just in time for Sam’s long, uncomfortable silence.

“Just a couple stories,” Sam finally mumbles and shrugs. There’s another awkward pause and then Sam turns his head, looking at Dean. “What about you?” 

Sam’s looking him dead in the eye and Dean lifts a shoulder, tilts his head to one side, glancing away and clearing his throat. “A couple.”

Sam squints at him, brow rising, eyes narrowing, and then he shakes his head in total disbelief. “More than _one_?” Sam’s voice has a sharp edge of laughter to it. “I’m surprised you got through _any_ of them.”

“Why?”

“I know this may come as a shock to you, Dean, but you’re kind of a homophobe.”

“Says the guy I’m fucking,” Dean snorts.

“Thought I didn’t count?”

Dammit. “You don’t.”

“See? Homophobe.”

Dean scowls, cutting his eyes at Sam. “I got through at least a hundred stories, just fine.”

Shit. He did _not_ just let Sam bait him into saying that.

Sam’s face goes slack, brows rising, eyes filled with complete surprise before Sam flicks them to the side, thinking about that.

Dean’s still fumbling for words to come back from that when Sam finally looks at him and shrugs. 

“Yeah, me too.”

Oh. Well. That’s. 

“I knew it,” Dean gloats.

“Some of it isn’t half bad.”

“And most of it is completely kinky.”

“Yeah. There was this one where we had a house and a garden and I--” Sam breaks off biting at his lower lip. “Never mind.”

“Was it the one with all the vegetables?” Dean asks, craning his neck at Sam. “The zucchini with the…” Dean makes a quick motion with his hand.

“You read that one, too?” Sam sucks in a hissing breath between his teeth, shaking his head regretfully. “Yeah that was bad.”

“Not as bad as the one where you healed me with jizz.” Sam snorts out a baffled laugh. “Or the one where I had a secret fetish for women’s lingerie.” Dean shudders at the memory.

“The one where I had to rescue you?” Sam asks.

Dean blinks, jaw shifting to the side. “No.”

“Oh.”

“Rescue me from—no. I don’t even wanna _know_.” Dean holds up his hands. 

“No, you really don’t.”

Dean shakes his head ruefully and sighs. “I still don’t get why so many of our fans think you top.”

“Yeah, I wondered about that, too,” Sam says, nodding. “I figured it’d be evenly split, you know?”

“Or completely the opposite,” Dean says.

Sam gives Dean an ‘are you serious?’ face. 

“Why not?” Dean snaps. “You get to be ‘Mr. Uber-Toppy’, ‘Here-Let-Me-Impale-You-On-My-Huge-Magical-Cock-And-Make-It-All-Better, Dean’ in like ninety percent of the stories. Why couldn’t it have been the other way around?”

“Maybe they know something you don’t.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it,” Sam smirks. 

“No _way_. First; I don’t bottom. Second—and more importantly—you get to fuck me in fanfiction so much already that there’s no way I’m letting you fuck me in real life, too.”

“This really bothers you, doesn’t it?” Sam looked surprised, and… strangely pleased.

“You so get off on being the one to top in fic, don’t you?” Dean asks, narrowing his eyes at Sam.

Sam looks to the side, and then lifts a shoulder, almost-helpless, self-satisfied smile curving his mouth. “It’s a little satisfying, yeah.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s the only way it’s ever gonna _happen_ ,” Dean shoots back, annoyed.

“Oh, come on, Dean. You can’t be serious,” Sam finally implores in his, ‘don’t be such an idiot’ tone of voice. “You’re really not ever going to--”

“No.”

“Not even just once?”

“No.”

“Just to see what it’s like?”

“Let me think-- _NO_.”

“That’s not fair,” Sam says, looking moody all of a sudden.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You get to top all the time.”

“Yeah… but that’s… different.”

“Different _how_?” Sam demands. 

“It just is.”

Sam curls his tongue against the inside of his cheek, lips parting as he shakes his head. “You are unbelievable.”

“I know.” Dean affects a smug smile and takes it like a compliment. “ _That’s_ why I get to top.”

Sam sighs and heaves up from the bed, yanking on his jeans.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you and your _ego_ some alone time.” Sam sits down at the table and flips open his laptop.

Dean sighs and rolls over onto his stomach and unmutes the TV.

*

“There are a few schools of thought,” Sam says about an hour later, and Dean arches a brow, looking over at him. He has no idea what Sam’s talking about, _and_ Sam’s talking right over the best part of _The Shining_ where Jack finally starts checking out completely.

“There’s the one where it’s because you’re always in control and have to be in charge and take care of me all the time. So bottoming gives you a chance to escape and not be in control for a little while.”

That… wasn’t like anything he expected to come out of his brother’s mouth right now, and Dean squints at Sam, trying to make sense of that.

“You spent the last hour researching why people think I bottom?” Dean asks, incredulously. He can’t believe it. That’s just… genius. He’s kind of amazed he didn’t think of doing it first.

“You wanted to know,” Sam says, terse as he shrugs. “And then there’s the one where it’s because you’re my older brother and would feel guilty taking advantage of me.”

Dean thinks about that for a second and decides _that_ obviously isn’t a problem. 

“And then there’s the one where you’re just the fangirls’ overall favorite, but they like to see you bottom, because the bottom gets attention lavished on them and you’re so _broken_ that they really like to imagine that.”

Um. Okay. But, no.

“And _then_ , there’s the one where it’s because _I’m_ the fangirls’ overall favorite and they love to see me top you because they want to imagine themselves in your place.”

Dean tongues at the inside of his cheek and considers all of that. “Yeah. I’m gonna go with that last one.”

Sam shrugs and keeps tapping away at his keyboard. 

“I don’t need your dick in my ass to relax, dude.”

Sam’s still quiet.

“I relax just fine on my own when we’re not fighting monsters. In fact, I relax _so_ well that you usually end up pissed at me for having _fun_.”

“And then,” Sam says. “There’s the one where you don’t take enough control of things outside of cases, and I’m jealous because you screw around and flirt so much that I claim you for my own.”

Dean’s not really sure what to make of that one—mostly because of where Sam decided to insert it in their conversation. Is he saying… there’s some truth to that one? “Are you… is that…?” Nope, Dean’s not having any luck stringing that question together. “I’m still going with my first choice,” he says, instead. “What about in the Top Dean corner?”

Sam’s mouth tightens. “Because you’re bossy and aggressive and I tend to bow down to you in our everyday relationship because you’re my older brother, and that carries over into the sex.”

Dean nods, tilting his head to the side as he does. “Yeah, okay. What else?”

“That’s pretty much it.”

So… Sam gets six arguments for topping… and Dean only gets one? “Maybe that means people don’t have to make up reasons for me to top,” Dean says, mouth curling in a slow grin.

“Or maybe that means no one bothers wondering why you top because as far as they’re concerned, you _don’t_.” Sam’s pulling on his smirking, hard-assed bitchface—the one that gets under Dean’s skin in under two seconds flat.

“Yeah, well, fact is, I _do_ , so tell our fans to shove that up _their_ ass,” Dean snaps.

“Because I let you,” Sam mutters.

“Like you’d do anything else.” Dean makes a dismissive sound.

“All the fans notice how much more aggressive I am in bed than you are.”

“You’re probably overcompensating for my bossy and aggressive personality that you _bow down to_ ,” Dean says, grinning at Sam.

Sam shuts the laptop and gets up from the chair in that very stiff way he gets when he’s truly pissed. 

Damn it. Dean’s totally not getting laid again tonight. 

He probably should’ve thought about that before he opened his mouth.

*

They’re lying in their beds, backs turned towards each other, and Dean can tell by Sam’s breathing, alone, that Sam’s not asleep yet, even if he’s pretending to be. Dean glances over and the clock reads 1:30am. They’ve both been like this for an hour, huddled under the blankets in the dark, red light of the vacancy sign flashing through the room over and over again incessantly.

This is ridiculous.

“This is ridiculous Sam,” Dean finally sighs, voice rough and grating. “Come on. It can’t be that bad. I mean, I’m good at—”

“Don’t talk to me.”

Dean exhales and rolls his eyes, body twisting violently deeper into the covers.

*

At 2:34, Dean finally tries to appeal to Sam’s reason again. “It makes total sense, Sam. I’m older _and_ I’m more aggressive and you’re. Well, you’re kind of—”

“Finish that sentence,” Sam hisses through the darkness, “and you’re never getting laid again.

Dean face contorts with anger as he bites the inside of his jaw, teeth sliding and closing over his tongue. 

Fine.

Dean slams a fist into his pillow with way more force than is necessary, and the resulting sound is an echoing sting off the bare motel room wall. He follows by thrusting his face into the hollow, hands balling the pillow underneath his cheek.

*

“You should try it. Just _once_ ,” Sam finally says, voice rigid.

Dean’s head rises from the pillow and cranes across his shoulder in his brother’s direction. Dean catches a glimpse of the clock that tells him it’s 3:28am, sees the broad expanse of Sam’s back turned toward him underneath the covers and lets his head fall back down in resigned disbelief. “You really are out of your fucking mind, you know that, right? How long are you gonna hold on to this?”

Sam’s silence is just as loud as any answer he could have made.

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

In the morning, they’re both cranky, trampling into each other’s space and bitching each other out in muttered undertones. Sam tests the bathtub water with his hand and complains about the lukewarm water before he turns it off, and then proceeds to bitch about how soaked the floor is.

“You couldn’t fucking dry it off?”

“I look like the fucking maid to you?” Dean throws a towel at Sam to wipe the floor with and turns back to the mirror, and Sam curses Dean under his breath, tossing the towel aside. Sam grabs the toothpaste and starts brushing his teeth and _that’s_ an adventure in random sharp elbows shoving into Dean’s space.

“Could you keep your fucking ape arms on _your_ side of the mirror?” Dean demands.

“Sorry,” Sam half-sniffs, half-snorts, just like a prissy little bitchboy as he leans down and cranks on the water to rinse his mouth. “Didn’t mean to step on your _toppy-ness_ , Highness.” Sam turns on the water and rinses his mouth noisily, and then stands up again, eyeing Dean in the mirror. 

Dean stops, hands falling to his sides, electric razor still humming against one palm as he stares at Sam in disbelief. He expected a lot of things… but _this_? Dean shakes his head, stupefied. “You are such a fucking _girl_.”

Sam goes cold then, shutting down, muscles stiffening, spine straightening then bending forward as he leans into the mirror, eyes fixed on his face. Sam puts a hand around his throat, fingers tracing a careful line up his neck, along his jaw like he’s measuring the stubble, focused and fixed on the motion like it’s the only thing he’s aware of. “I think you’re just scared.”

Oh, that is _it_. Dean clicks off the razor, world narrowing to his brother’s face. “Of what?” Dean snaps, squinting at Sam. “Your Godzilla sized _cock_? Like I haven’t been shot or stabbed half a dozen times? And oh, wait—there was that one time I was tortured and gutted _daily_ for thirty years in hell.”

Sam sets his hands down against the sink vanity, fingers gripping it tight. “That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t _trying_ to be funny. I’m just sayin’… you wanna take it to the mat, Sam?” Dean lifts his arms from his sides in invitation. “Let’s fucking _go_.”

Sam’s face works for a long moment, and then he looks back up at the mirror. “Fine,” he says, like he’s making a decision before he spins on Dean, looking him straight in the eye. “Yeah. Okay. Thirty years of torture… Forty years in hell, Dean, and I can’t even _imagine_ what it must have been like…” Sam shakes his head. “But _I’m_ just saying… all that? And you still can’t _bottom_? We’re talking issues here.”

“If I had issues,” Dean says, holding up the silent razor and pointing it at Sam. “I would never have fucked you in the first place.” 

“Yeah,” Sam snorts. “You’re fine. As long as you’re doing the fucking and not the bottoming. ’Cause you think you’re too fucking _good_ for that, _too_ , right? Just like you think you’re too fucking good for everything else?”

Jesus _Christ_. Where the fuck is this even _coming from_?

“For _fuck’s sake_ , Sam,” Dean grits through his teeth, throwing Sam a nasty sideways look. “If I let you top would you _shut the fuck **up**_ and stop whining about it?”

Sam stands up straight, shoulders shifting moodily before he folds his arms over his chest and twists his mouth. “Yeah.”

“Fine,” Dean spits, throwing down his razor. It bounces of the counter and clatters to the floor, clicking back on with a vibrating hum against the tile. “Come on, Sam.” Dean twists his head to the side, pushing his face into Sam’s as he spreads his arms out from his sides. “Show me what toppy bitch you are. ‘Cause I don’t fucking believe it for a sec—”

Dean ends the sentence a little bit earlier than he’d previously planned on account of Sam _slamming_ him against the wall and shoving his tongue inside Dean’s mouth. Sam’s got his hands everywhere, one on Dean’s shoulder and then in his hair, the other grabbing his waist and then against his hip, pushing him hard into the tile. Okay… that was... not at all what Dean expected, and if it takes him a few seconds to track all this--Sam’s hands grabbing him and pulling and tugging him every which way--then that’s understandable.

Sam’s got one hand on the back of Dean’s neck, yanking him deeper into the kiss, fingers of his other hand sliding under the waistline of Dean’s towel and ripping it away before they close around Dean’s cock, squeezing. Fuck, that feels really good, and Dean growls his approval, sinking his teeth into Sam’s lower lip and shoving off from the wall, nails tearing a brutal trail down Sam’s back until he slides them inside Sam’s pajamas, palms closing over the muscles in Sam’s ass. Sam hisses into his mouth and then plunges deeper, sucking in a violent breath through his nose as his hands clench Dean _hard_. 

Sam lets go of him for one split second—long enough to shove down his boxers and pajamas and toe out of them. “That’s more like it,” Sam whispers, and throws Dean back against the bathroom wall again. Dean’s shoulders collide with sharp impact against the tile, and he barely has time to breathe before Sam’s shoving against him, hips thrusting, their bare cocks dragging, hard, hot skin against skin, Sam’s mouth sucking and pulling at Dean’s, quick desperate hands everywhere.

Dean’s surprised _and_ impressed. Hell, if he’d known Sam liked it _this_ rough—

“And here all this time I’ve been taking it easy on you,” Dean chuckles. 

“Told you I’m not one of your girls,” Sam grates back, eyes dark. “Now shut up and let me fuck you.”

“Overplaying it a little,” Dean critiques in the split second he gets before Sam’s mouth is locked on his again. He twists his head and his hips, thrusting back against Sam, muscles coiling behind the move and pushing Sam backwards again. 

“God you suck as a bottom,” Sam breathes, shaking his head.

“What’d you expect?”

Sam grabs him by the shoulders, spins him around, out into the motel room, and Dean catches his balance almost instantly, meeting Sam halfway as he comes at Dean again. Their chests collide, both of them breathing out hard as their mouths impact, Sam’s arms wrapping around Dean’s shoulders, nails scraping against the base of Dean’s skull as he spins Dean around again. 

“Overcompensating,” Dean grins, sinking his hands in to Sam’s hair and yanking Sam’s head back, teeth tearing at Sam’s throat. Sam moans and then tugs away, putting his hands on Dean’s chest and _shoving_.

Dean lands on the bed, Sam’s weight falling on top of him so fast that it forces all the breath out of his lungs, and his instinct is to grab Sam in a hold and flip them over, Dean grinning as he ends up on top.

Sam grabs Dean by the back of the head again, mouths crushing together, Sam sucking on the end of Dean’s tongue and doing that _thing_ he does when he sucks Dean’s dick, and Dean rolls his hips into his brother, groaning at the feel of their skin sliding, his cock riding up the center line of Sam’s.

“Gonna ride my cock, Dean?” Sam asks with a wicked smirk.

“What?” Dean blanches, faltering as the words suddenly make sense. “Fuck no, I’m not—”

Sam takes advantage of Dean’s hesitation, and the next thing Dean knows, he’s on his back, Sam’s cock grinding down into his, and oh, fuck, that’s good. Maybe he should just let Sam roll with that.

Sam sucks and licks his way down Dean’s body, lips closing wet and hot around Dean’s cock, and any thoughts of protest dissolve. 

Sam runs his hands under the backs of Dean’s thighs, grasping Dean behind the knees and pushing his legs up.

Sam stops sucking his cock, and Dean’s about to ask what the fuck he’s doing –he feels Sam’s breath fall lower between his legs, and then he gets it.

“Sam… you are _not_ \--”

The tip of Sam’s tongue touches him, and Dean jolts, trying to sit up. “That’s _sick_ \--”

Sam plunges his tongue inside and Dean falls back down against the bed. Oh fucking Christ in Hell that feels _good_. Sam turns his tongue inside Dean, twisting and curling, pushing deeper, and Dean’s never felt anything like it. Sam moves his mouth around experimentally, lips brushing the outside of Dean’s body, tongue sliding quick, sleek and deep. 

Dean has enough blood left in his brain to remember that he’s read about this in fanfic… but he didn’t really _get it_.

THIS is why guys do that.

It’s like a blowjob in reverse, only without skin in the way, Sam’s tongue connected directly to every single nerve as he thrusts in and out of Dean’s body. Sam turns his head to the side, lips closing, sucking against the skin as he pushes his tongue inside Dean again, and Dean relents completely, head falling back against the pillow, his mouth open and groaning. It’s _better_ than a blowjob in reverse. He grips the back of Sam’s head and pushes into the feeling, hips lifting from the bed, and he’s not sure about Sam fucking him, but this? He could deal with this pretty much full time.

Sam gets his hand around the base of Dean’s cock, and Dean shudders into his grip, hips pushing against his brother’s mouth. Sam makes some kind of low sound that reverberates up into Dean’s body, sending shocks all through him, and he hisses in a sharp breath, body straining, hands tangled in fistfuls of his brother’s hair. Sam responds with another low groan, shoving his tongue even deeper, tip curling, and Dean’s hips buck all by themselves, mouth spilling out a stream of muttered curses.

Sam seems to remember Dean’s cock then, and drags his dry palm up the length, lunging with his tongue at the same time. Dean’s whole body contracts with violent pleasure, and then Sam’s mouth closes around the rim, sucks and twists his tongue even deeper, thumb and forefinger circled just under the head of Dean’s cock, squeezing lightly.

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ ,” Dean moans.

His brother’s hand stroking, thumbing under the head of his cock, tongue buried in Dean’s ass, tip reaching, stretching, unfolding, mouth sucking at him, thrusting his tongue so deep that his chin bumps against Dean’s body. Dean feels the combined sensations hit him like a shot—heat coiling sudden inside his belly, balls tightening.

“God _dammit_ , Sam,” he grates, twisting his face into the pillow and biting down hard, yanking on double handfuls of his brother’s hair, whole body stiffening. He comes with Sam’s tongue in his ass, warm, wet spatter hitting his own belly as he seizes, Sam fucking him with hard, deep strokes, fist stripping Dean’s cock, faster and slicker now, and the second wave hits him even harder, hands ripping at Sam’s hair until they fall away, twisting into fists, ripping at the sheets as he sinks his teeth into the pillow. He grunts, body twisting, sweating, thrusting hard into Sam’s grip, rocking into his brother’s face, coming so hard that his vision whites out, hips jittering.

The next thing he’s aware of is… something in his mouth? He spits, and a piece of the pillow stuffing drifts away on the air.

Then he’s aware of Sam sitting up on his knees, staring down at Dean like he’s afraid Dean might’ve died.

“What?” Dean demands, scowling.

Sam just raises his brows like Dean’s crazy if he even has to ask, and then shrugs. Dean’s still trying to catch his breath to say something else—though he has no idea _what_ \--and then Sam’s sliding a hand through the pearly slick covering Dean’s stomach, tip of his finger pushing up between Dean’s legs.

Dean suddenly remembers what they’re about to do and thinks his body would tense if his muscles were capable of anything except being _Jell-O_ right now. Maybe it’ll be okay… the tongue thing turned out not to be so bad, right? He can suffer almost any indignity after that. He thinks, anyway.

Sam’s finger is a lot harder than his tongue, and… _longer_. Dean grunts as it slides inside him, trying to adjust. It’s weird, and but it’s not _terrible_. Sam takes his time, nothing but the sound of breathing between them as Sam works his finger deeper, crooking the tip, and yeah, right there.

*

By the time Sam’s got two fingers inside him, Dean’s starting to get bored. It does feel kinda good, just not as good as other things. He’d much rather have his dick inside of Sam.

*

Sam takes forever to get the third finger inside him, and by then, Dean’s threatening Sam with counting the holes in the perforated drop ceiling one by one out loud if he doesn’t fuck Dean soon. Then Sam starts sucking his cock again and Dean forgets all about being annoyed for a little while.

*

Sam aligns his hips, head of his cock nudging between Dean’s legs. Dean feels… as ready as he’s ever gonna be. It’s not the worst experience he’s ever had.

It’s still…

“This is weird.”

“I’ll be careful,” Sam promises, sliding up Dean’s body.

Sam leans down, mouth angling for Dean’s—

Dean catches Sam’s chin with his hand and flinches away. “Whoa. You are not doing _that_ , after **that** earlier.”

“Fine.” Sam settles for sucking along the line of Dean’s pulse. 

*

Sam takes his time pushing inside Dean, and Dean almost stops him about fifty different times—but he said he’d do this, and he _will_. Sam slides deeper into him until their bodies are pressed together, Sam’s arm muscles trembling as he holds up his weight. God damn, Sam _feels_ even bigger than he looks, and it doesn’t hurt, but it’s… just…

This is… 

“You gonna fuck me or what?” Dean finally asks.

*

“You know, Dean, if you’d just relax…”

“I _am_ relaxed, Sam. It’s not my fault your dick is the size of California,” Dean breathes. “Wait… there. Yeah. No, wait, to the left, almost… unh… dammit. A little to the right. Harder.”

“I should’ve gagged you,” Sam mutters, and tries to kiss Dean to shut him up, instead.

*

“Your hips should have ‘Ginsu’ stamped on them,” Dean hisses.

“Sorry,” Sam breathes, sweating as he thrusts into Dean again. He wraps a hand around Dean’s dick like an apology.

That’s better.

*

After, they’re both sticky, skin clinging to each other with sweat and come, Sam’s hipbones digging into Dean.

“So you’re over this whole needing to top once thing, right?” Dean asks.

“Once?” Sam asks, breathing out against Dean’s shoulder. “You came.”

“I come when a dog barks in New Jersey.”

“What?” Dean demands when Sam lifts his head and just stares at him.

“It didn’t completely suck,” Dean offers.

“You are such an _asshole_ ,” Sam breathes in disbelief.

“I just know what I’m good at. And this? Not it.”

“If you’d just relax and let it happen--”

“I’m _incapable_ of relaxing any more than coming with your dick in my ass, _trust me_.”

“Dean--”

“If I were any more relaxed your dick would _fall out_ of me, Sam.”

Sam shuts his mouth and raises his brows at Dean.

“Okay,” Dean concedes, grudgingly. “Probably not,” he shrugs. “But you know what I mean.”

Sam’s still looking at him silently.

“You said I should try it at least once—and I _did_. And you said you’d stop bitching if I did,” Dean adds quickly as Sam tries to say something else.

Sam’s face pinches with annoyance, mouth twisting to the side.

“Fine,” Sam sighs. “You win. _You_ can top.” 

“See, Sammy? Wouldn’t it have been easier if you’d just listened to me in the first place?”

Sam rolls his eyes, face pitching forward into the pillow, weight falling against Dean’s chest.

*

Sam goes out to get breakfast, and when he gets back he’s balancing a tray with two coffees in one hand, a bag of steaming food in other and a bigger plastic bag with Spiderman printed on the outside dangling from that wrist. “Found some more books.” 

Sam sets the food and coffee down on the small kitchen counter, then tosses the books down on the bed in front of Dean and keeps walking.

One of the titles catches Dean’s eye as Sam sits down on the other bed.

_All Hell Breaks Loose, Part I_

“You bought this?” Dean demands, flipping the book over in his hand. He can barely even stand to look at the cover; picture of him, face buried in Sam’s shoulder, both of them on their knees in the mud as the rain pours down, Dean’s arms wrapped tight around Sam’s body.

“I know… but, Dean… it could have clues.” Sam breaks off at the look on Dean’s face, and then his mouth firms. “We already lived through it. How bad could it be?”

Dean narrows his eyes on Sam and then opens the book, looking down as he turns to the final page.

_Sam was five when he broke his collar bone with a sudden, snapping sound that sent Dean running, his heart pounding in his chest. His fingers slipped into the curve of the back of Sam’s neck, and he’d thought that he’d give anything then if only Sam would be all right. Dean felt that same feeling now, his fingers not quite daring to touch Sam the same way; one arm wrapped around Sam’s waist, other cradling the back of Sam’s head._

_“Not too bad,” Dean whispered, fingers feeling across the severed bone beneath skin, blood pouring out over his hand. He closed his eyes, holding Sam tight and squeezing as the rain poured down around them. His heart pounded loudly in his ears, thumping against the unsteady beat of Sam’s through his ribcage._

_Sam was almost already gone; Dean felt it, knew it. Dean closed his eyes against the feeling, tears welling up. Sam couldn’t leave him, he thought, clutching at Sam clumsily and hugging him, rocking him back and forth--_

“Bad,” Dean replies, snapping the book shut.

“It can’t be _that_ bad. We _lived through it_.”

“You read the end of _No Rest for the Wicked_ and then tell me how it’s not so bad.”

Sam thinks about that for a long second. “Maybe we could get Chuck to send us what he’s got of the new series? There are probably more answers in that than in the older books.”

“You wanna talk to Chuck?” Dean asks the question with a glaring ‘duh’ look.

Sam frowns, looking confused. Dean can see it; the second it dawns on Sam that Chuck has seen _everything_ they’ve been doing for the last week. All the color drains out of Sam’s face and his eyes go wide, nostrils flaring.

“Shit.”

“There’s no way he’s adding that to the Gospel, but…”

“He knows.” Sam still looks shell shocked at the idea. “Should we… do something?”

“Like what?” Dean asks, arching a brow at Sam as he sits up. “Send him a case of complementary alcohol to go with his new mental porn? Put a note on it, ‘Hey, dude. Sorry about the brotherfucking.’?”

Sam looks sick.

“He’ll be fine,” Dean says, waving a hand through the air as he leans to get his socks form the floor. “He’s been fangirling us for years anyway.”

“But Dean… he has to _see_ it, every time we…”

Dean stops with one sock pulled halfway onto his foot, and then shoves it off, getting up from the bed. “Yeah. Maybe we should send him some alcohol.”

*

“I keep… thinking about Chuck,” Sam breathes fifteen minutes later, hands flexing against the back of Dean’s head. “That he’s _seeing_ this.”

Dean yanks his mouth back and stares up at Sam. “You want me to stop sucking your cock?”

Sam stops moving for a long moment. “Well it’s not like… we can stop our whole lives… just because he gets live video of us…”

Dean tilts his face to the side, contemplating the head of Sam’s dick. “Not our problem,” Dean shrugs, and then slides his mouth down Sam’s cock, tip curling against the center vein.

From the way Sam moans and twitches under him, he’s pretty sure Sam agrees.

*

An hour after that, Dean orders pizza for lunch instead of eating cold breakfast food. Sam goes for a shower and Dean spreads the laptop open on the bed. He’s knee-deep in reading through a really _long_ fanfiction story that’s actually pretty fucking _good_ \--even if it gets under his skin like nothing else he’s ever read—when Sam comes out of the bathroom. He wouldn’t have guessed that people had so much to say about them beyond making them fuck, but apparently _this_ person does.

“What are you reading?” Sam asks, frowning as he scrubs at the back of his neck with a towel.

“Fanfiction,” Dean responds with a quick glance.

“Dean. We’re already… why are you obsessing about stories about us having sex?”

“This one’s not about us having sex. I mean…” he gestures at the air, “it _is_ \--eventually, I’m sure—but most of the story is about _us_. It’s creepy, Sam. They know all these details about us, and even the stuff they make up about our childhood isn’t that far off.”

“Considering how much of our lives are in those books? It’s not surprising.”

“Yeah… but…” Dean has to find a way to make Sam understand the magnitude of this. “It’s actually _good_ ,” he says, leveling his eyes on Sam. “Good writing, good cases.”

“Law of averages says _some_ our fans have to be decent writers,” Sam says, throwing the towel on the bed. Sam pulls into his jeans, and Dean reads a few more lines before he stops.

“I don’t get it. They all think we’re _in love_ , Sam. Like, epic soul-mate, you’re my one fucking fragile perfect lotus flower, true love. Even when you’re evil and you top. What the fuck is up with that?”

“You’re still trying to make sense out of this?” Sam’s looking at Dean like he might be insane as he pulls a t-shirt over his head.

Dean knows he’s not insane; the _fans_ \-- _those_ people are insane. “It doesn’t make sense. You drive me so crazy most of the time I want to _strangle_ you more than anyone else I’ve ever cared about in my life.”

“Makes no sense at all,” Sam agrees. He clears his throat and pushes his hands into his pockets. “Sounds _nothing_ like true love.”

“Right?” Dean says, pulling a sideways nod at Sam.

“Totally.”

*

A couple hours after that, Dean finally finishes the story, impressed. It’s… so close to how they really are, excepting the manly, unspoken, one true love thing. At least it was manly and unspoken. He’s this close to opening a LiveJournal account just so he can comment, and then decides that would be like _cementing_ his fangirling. There _are_ limits.

“So who topped?” Sam asks from behind reading one of the novels.

“I did,” Dean says and grins.

Sam makes a noise and goes back to reading his book. Dean closes the laptop and gets up.

“You are not _even_ pretending that’s out of character,” he says, folding his arms over his chest as he looks down at Sam.

Sam shrugs, not looking up. 

Dean’s on the bed in a second, shoving Sam’s book out of the way, cock pressed hard against Sam’s through their clothes.

“Toppy bitch,” Sam groans, hips pushing up into Dean’s.

“You know you love it.”

“I did read this one Top Dean story that was kind of hot…”

“You’re so giving me that link later,” Dean says, biting against Sam’s cheek before he thrusts again, tongue shoving into his brother’s mouth.

*

True to his word, Dean makes Sam try to find the story. Sam settles in at the table with his laptop, and Dean pulls a chair up behind and to the side of Sam so he can see the screen.

“It might take me a while to find it. It was a few days ago,” Sam says, chewing at his lower lip as he scrolls through the Internet Explorer browser history. He chooses an URL and the page pulls up. Sam frowns for a second, and then brightens.

“Oh, hey, did you read this one where we got separated and birth and…”

 

\--“Check this one out. I’m a lawyer and you’re a serial killer…”—

 

\--“Lemme drive, Sammy. There’s this one, it’s fucking priceless, where you’re …”—

 

\--“Can we just make a pact right now about fruits and vegetables—as in never?”

 

\--“I think we need a clause about tentacles, too.” –

 

\--“ _Dad_? What the _fuck_?”

“Oh my God,” Sam breathes.

“Click _back_ , Sammy, click the back button!”—

 

\--They’re both in front of the laptop, Dean in the chair, Sam leaning over his shoulder, their eyes and mouths wide open.

“Is that… actually even physically possible?” Dean chokes out.

“I…” Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“I… think I need a beer,” Dean says.

“You can’t leave me alone with this.”

“Then let’s go get the beer together.”—

*

Dean buys two cases of beer, a cooler and a couple bags of ice. When they get back to the room, he settles the ice and beer into the cooler and then pops the top on one of the bottles.

“Oh,” Sam says, “here’s one where I’m… and you’re…” Sam flushes slightly and hastily adds, “never mind.”

Dean walks up and sits down next to Sam, scanning the words on the screen. “Hold on, what the hell is an ‘Unholy Consort’?” Sam shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and Dean stares, frowning. “How the fuck am I _pregnant_?”

 

\--“Sam.” Dean’s voice is hoarse. “I need another beer. Stat.”

“What’s happening now?” Sam asks, coming out of the bathroom.

“I’m going into labor.”—

 

\--“Let’s say it was even possible for a guy to get pregnant, where the fuck does the baby come ou-- _Oh_. Oh, _God_.”

“Dean, just stop reading it.”

“I am never having your evil assbabies, dude.”—

 

*

Finally, after they wade through a few more stories, they stumble across a LiveJournal community called Big Bang.

“They’ve got hundreds of Sam/Dean stories…” Sam says, “and they’re all… over twenty thousand words.”

“Do these people even think about anything besides us fucking each other?” Dean marvels, wide-eyed. Not that Dean’s thought about much else for the past few days, but _still_.

“And there’s _art_.”

They spend the next twenty minutes looking at hand drawn and photo-manipped art. Most of it is what Dean guesses are scenes from the stories, but there are a couple…

He tilts his head to the side, trying to figure out, what, exactly, Sam’s supposed to be doing to him in _this_ one. Sam closes the window and clicks on another one, and in this one, Sam’s down on all fours on the bed, Dean’s fingers twisted in Sam’s hair as he fucks him from behind, face on his brother’s shoulder, Sam’s eyes closed, tongue curling out to lick Dean’s amulet as it falls over Sam’s shoulder.

“That one’s kinda…”

Sam turns his face around and looks at Dean with raised brows.

Dean coughs into his hand and avoids Sam’s eyes.

*

“What the fuck were we even looking for in the first place?”

*

Somehow, Sam eventually ends up on a LiveJournal user profile page for someone named “nu_breed”, described by one of her friends as “a bottom Sam girl until the end”. 

“Here’s the link to the story I read,” Sam says, clicking triumphantly.

Dean slides into the seat and starts reading. It’s set just before the novel _Folsom Prison Blues_ , and it’s… funny. And a lot like they really are with each other. And. Well. Dean squints at the monitor and shifts in his chair.

_“I'm not your fucking bitch."_

_"Really?" Dean's voice is hushed, half-whispered. He grabs a handful of Sam's hair and pulls his head back. He kisses him, tongue pushing inside Sam's mouth and fucking him with it. Sam moans, and Dean bites at his bottom lip. "How about now?"_

It’s still… bizarre that people write about them this intimately-- _especially_ now that they’re actually doing it—but. That’s… well, now that he’s been… fucking Sam for a few days and the whole ‘squick’ feeling has passed… it’s kinda. Maybe a little bit hot.

_Dean has his other hand resting at Sam's waist, his thumb rubbing Sam's hipbone. "I'm not going to fuck you," Dean breathes into Sam's neck, "not even going to touch you till you beg me to."_

Maybe more than a little.

_"You're an asshole," Sam manages to get out, his voice strained and he can feel his cock, hard and ready, desperate for Dean's hand, his mouth, anything._

_"I could leave you like this, just leave you on the edge and desperate for anyone to touch you. But I wouldn't let them, Sammy. I'd mark you so they knew who you belonged to."_

_Sam closes his eyes and he can visualise Dean sucking bruises into his neck, scratching and biting and marking him everywhere and he chokes out, "Please."_

Dean bites his lower lip, and thinks he shouldn’t be getting hard reading this—wonders for a second if Sam would actually _enjoy_ that. The author sure does sell it like Sam would. And Sam _did_ show him this story.

He cuts a glance at Sam, who abandoned the laptop around the time Dean started reading. Sam seems oblivious, eyes glued to the TV screen.

_Dean fucks him through it, pushing Sam down with one hand on the back of his neck and pulling out just in time to come all over his ass and back, marking him._

Dean finishes the story and closes the laptop, and his cock isn’t getting any less insistent about needing some attention. Fuck. He’s getting turned on by _fanfiction_ now.

“So you thought that was hot?” Dean asks, voice slightly hoarse.

Sam shrugs, not looking away from the TV. “Yeah. Kind of.”

Yeah. The ‘kind of’ that’s so much ‘yes’ that Sam can’t even look at Dean right now. Dean considers that for a few seconds, and then pushes up from the chair. He walks until he’s standing between his brother and the TV, so that Dean’s the only thing Sam can see. Dean lifts his chin and squints down at Sam, fingers riding the curve of his brother’s skull, knuckles closing around the strands of hair. “Really?”

“If you’re gonna top all the time you might as well go all the way.” Sam manages to make it sound casual, but Dean can see the way Sam’s eyes darken, the slight flush rising to his cheeks.

Dean’s had a couple of beers and he’s pretty sure he can roll with this. He’s read enough stories with Sam being super-toppy. This might actually be fun.

Dean yanks Sam’s head backwards, forcing Sam to look up at him, tongue teasing the swell of his brother’s lower lip before he pushes inside, rough, long, dirty lick at the inside of Sam’s mouth. Sam starts to reach for Dean—Dean catches both of his brother’s hands around the wrists, and shoves Sam down against the bed, falling on top of him. Sam’s already aching hard, and Dean’s cock is an insistent throb between his legs. He rocks his hips into Sam and devours his brother’s mouth with bruising kisses, tongue plunging deep. Puts a hand on Sam’s face, fingers digging into the soft skin above his brother’s jaw, thumb on Sam’s chin, pulling Sam’s mouth open wider. 

He takes his time, licking the inside of Sam’s mouth, biting Sam’s lips until they’re red and swollen, his brother squirming underneath him with each flick of Dean’s tongue against the raw skin. When he’s done there, he closes his teeth around the muscle in Sam’s neck and bites down hard, other hand grabbing Sam’s deadly hipbone and holding it against the bed while Dean rocks into him again. Sam breathes out guttural surprise, hips inching up, meeting Dean’s, hand closing on the back of Dean’s neck. Dean pulls away, growling as he throws Sam’s hand back down against the bed. He rises up on his knees, giving Sam a level look before he reaches down and grabs the hem of his shirt, peeling it up over his head. He undoes the button and zipper on his jeans next sliding them down past his hips while Sam watches him, leaning forward over Sam as he eases his pants past his knees and kicks out of them.

His body hovers over Sam’s like a promise, not quite touching him yet—and then he sits back up on his knees, moving around on the bed until he’s straddling his brother’s face, one knee on either side. He settles back on his haunches against the pillow, back almost touching the headboard. Sam’s staring upside-down at him with glazed eyes, understanding complicit. Sam’s lips part, eyes moving to focus on Dean’s dick, tongue flashing out with a look of hunger. 

Dean nudges at his brother’s mouth, head of his cock brushing Sam’s lips, leaving behind a smear of pre-come, wet and shiny across the swell. Sam closes his eyes, tilts his head back and opens his mouth, his soft, warm lips clinging around the head. God, Sam opening up for him like that, a strained, eager sound hitting Dean like a shock, hot breath ghosting against sensitive skin. Dean can’t help a desperate hitch of his hips, shuddering as he sinks another inch into his brother’s mouth. Sam’s lips tighten, tongue flickering to taste the tip, barest pull of suction—and that’s it. Dean heaves forward with a grunt, falling, grabbing Sam’s hips, sliding across the sleekness of his brother’s tongue as he buries his cock in deep wet, heat. Sam’s mouth seals around his dick all the way to the base, sucking like a goddamned vacuum, throat working, tongue wriggling. Dean yanks back, gasping out a breath at the pleasure of the sensation and sinks deep again, feels Sam’s throat close around him, velvety and tight.

Dean rides him, slow at first, then rutting with his hips, slipping, sliding, cock hitting the back of Sam’s throat, rubbing against every bit of slick softness clenched around him, the sounds Sam’s making vibrating through his dick and driving him fucking _crazy_. Sam tilts his head back even further as Dean speeds up, hands locked around his brother’s hips, drives deep and feels Sam moan, sound humming through Dean’s whole body. Dean comes, gripping bone so hard he feels like he’s going to rip Sam’s skin off, knows there’ll be bruises tomorrow. The thought just makes him come even harder, Sam twisting his head underneath Dean and sucking, swallowing, and the sensation smashes right through Dean’s brain, erasing everything else.

His hips are still twitching, sliding on instinct, stuttering aborted movements as Sam keeps sucking him, and drawing out the sensation until Dean feels raw and full with it. Dean pulls free with a chattering of teeth, hot shivers running up his spine. He settles his hips next to Sam’s head, upper body lying across the length of his brother’s torso, chest to belly. He sucks two fingers into his mouth and pulls them out dripping, other hand moving each of Sam’s legs up and apart. His fingers trace a circle around his brother’s rim, making it glisten before he drops his head and licks.

Sam practically twists out of his skin at the touch of Dean’s tongue, and Dean’s still not a hundred percent sure about this, but fuck it, he’s here, and winding Sam up even more is exactly what he wants. He settles the tip of his tongue into the crease, nudging experimentally, and Sam bucks, pushing into Dean’s chin. The taste is slightly musky above the familiar salty tang of skin, and Dean stiffens his tongue, presses deeper. He can feel the ring of muscle close around him, so tight and searing hot and Sam goes so crazy that Dean grabs him by the thighs, holds him open and still. It doesn’t taste like much now that he’s inside, and he thrusts deeper, feels Sam quake to the tips of his toes, gasping, and then lets his tongue slide out, tip catching and holding just inside the ring of muscle. He holds Sam down then, craning his neck for a better angle, and fucks him with short, sharp jabs of his tongue until Sam’s whimpering, hands clawing as they reach for Dean before they fall away again, squeezing fists into the sheets.

Dean finally tugs his tongue free of Sam, tracing a line up and under Sam’s balls, drawn so tight and round against his body, so ready and needing. Dean sucks on his fingers again until they’re glistening, thick droplets clinging to the tip, and pushes both of them inside Sam’s body. He watches Sam’s body spread open around his fingers, taking him easily, and shoves in all the way to the bottom. 

Sam sounds like he’s _dying_ when Dean pushes a third finger inside his brother. He teases and plays, fingers crooking against the sweet spot for a while before he spreads them apart as far as he can, Sam’s whole body going rigid. He fucks Sam with deep, hard thrusts of his hand, Sam’s whole body rising into shivering, sweating knots, spine bowing up from the bed. 

“God...Dean, fuck me.”

“Not yet.” Dean twists his fingers, enjoying the shiver that races through Sam, the flex of Sam’s inner muscles, clinging to him, wet and hot.

“Dean,” Sam gasps in a breathless rush. “ _Please_.”

“Anything else comes out of your mouth besides moaning and I’ll stop.”

Sam shuts up, and Dean knows what an effort that must be at this point, the way Dean’s been teasing him. Dean lowers his chin, getting a hand around Sam’s dick as he licks a thin line along the underside of the crown, then takes Sam in his mouth with a quick twist of his neck, breathing out hard. Sam’s moaning and making helpless noises deep in his throat that go straight to Dean’s dick. When he’s hard again, he curls his fingers inside Sam, lets the tips drag and push against slick muscle all the way out, and tears his mouth from his brother’s cock.

Sam jerks against the bed, whole body seizing against the sudden lack of sensation, hands scrabbling over Dean’s skin. Dean sits up on his knees and grabs Sam’s shoulders, rolling Sam over on his stomach. Dean sits up and does a 180, switching his knees on either side of his brother’s head and straddling him, balls brushing against the back of Sam’s neck. He presses his hands against the mattress and lifts his knees, settling his shins against Sam’s back before he slowly straightens his legs, body sliding down Sam’s until he’s molded belly to back against his brother. He reaches for the condoms and lube on the night stand, rolls on and slicks up, capping the bottle of lube and throwing it down on the covers. 

He angles his hips up, cock head teasing against Sam as he lays his arms on top of his brothers, thumb and forefinger circling Sam’s wrists and holding tight as he puts them up over Sam’s head, pressing them into the pillow as he thrusts with his hips, head falling back as he sinks into Sam like a knife through warm butter, body swallowing him easily, greedily.

“Fuck, Sam.” He closes his teeth at the base of his brother’s neck, holding as he strains all the way to the bottom, bodies meeting, Sam arching into the thrust as much as he can with Dean’s weight on top of him. Dean digs his toes into the bed, shoving just a fraction of an inch deeper, and Sam’s hands clutch useless and empty against the pillow, muscles and tendons flexing under Dean’s palms.

Dean lets his teeth slide free of Sam’s neck, whispering against his brother’s skin. “Fucking dying for it, aren’t you?” Dean snaps his hips back, slamming forward before Sam can answer, and the sound Sam makes, the way he arches into Dean and spreads his legs wider is more than answer enough. But Dean wants to hear more, cock dragging back slow and driving in with an upward thrust as he hits that spot inside of Sam, squeezing his brother’s wrists. He inches up, chin hooking over Sam’s shoulder, whispering hot and thick as he seesaws his hips in and out.

“That how you want it, Sam? Like it like this?”

“God... Dean. Fuck... yes,” Sam rasps, words tearing from him with an effort as Dean drives into him again.

“Gonna fuck you raw and useless,” Dean promises, growling the words with a vicious thrust.

He holds on to the bones in his brother’s wrists and lets his mouth slide back down to cover the knob of bone at the top of his brother’s spine, teeth digging grooves into the skin as he curls his stomach in and under, drilling into his brother. Hard, fast, vicious strokes, so fucking good; Sam’s hips twitching up helplessly from the mattress with every down-stroke.

Dean sucks against the skin between his teeth until he knows the skin is bruised purple with blood and finally tugs away, hammering into Sam. “Know what you want, Sam,” he whispers, twisting the angle of his cock as he keeps going, tonguing against the mark on the back of his brother’s neck. “Not gonna get it until you ask.”

The words burst from Sam’s lips like a flood, neck pushing into Dean’s mouth. “Please, need to, God, please.”

“Need to what?” Dean demands, body slamming into Sam so hard that Sam’s whole body jolts an inch up the bed.

“Need...” Sam arches, moaning as Dean keeps fucking him. “God ...I.... fucking... hate you...”

“What,” tongue licking a wicked trail up the back of Sam’s neck, “do,” fucking deep and pulling out fast, “you,” fingernails digging into Sam’s wrists, “need?” 

“Need... God,” Sam gasps, almost senseless.

“Not God,” Dean growls, fucking him even harder.

“Fuck,” Sam groans “You’re... such... an asshole.”

“But I’m the asshole... that’s gonna make you come,” Dean purrs with heavy promise, smirking as he grinds into Sam. 

Dean can feel Sam shudder, muscles rippling and tensing, and then the words pull from him, desperate and broken. “Fuck, Dean. Touch me. Need to... God... need to come, Dean, please. _Please_.”

Dean releases Sam’s wrist and slides his hand down under Sam’s body. Sam’s so fucking _hard_ , hot, flushed skin, slick at the head with wetness. Dean plays in it for a second before he wraps his palm around the width and jerks Sam just as hard as he’s fucking him.

Sam comes with the force of a bullet from a gun, shooting hot and thick into the sheets, slicking Dean’s fist with come. Dean’s hips stutter as Sam locks down around his cock, muscles fluttering and _squeezing_ \--oh, fucking _Christ_ \--

They both buck and shiver and shake, bodies working counterpoint rhythm, and Dean locks his teeth at the top of Sam’s spine and bites _hard_.

Sam cries out, whole body flexing and coiling against Dean, muscles locking around Dean’s dick, and there’s a split second where Dean can’t breathe, can’t see—and then his nerve endings catch fire, shooting sparks all through him before they explode, body blotting out everything except the extreme force of pleasure ripping through him.

When he can think again, Sam’s spread boneless and shivering underneath him. “Yeah... fuck... Sam. So good,” Dean rasps, hips dragging and pushing to fill Sam slow as he rides out the last edge.

He finally collapses against Sam, both of them sweating bullets, hearts beating like a trip hammer, neither of them able to do anything but lie there sticky and fucked out and trying to breathe.

Fuck. The sex just _keeps_ getting better. Dean wonders if it’s always like this, the longer things go on. It’s not like he’s ever had much of a chance to find out. He could ask Sam, Sam was with Jess for two years… but Dean’s not sure he wants to know.

Dean slides out of Sam with a last shiver and pulls himself over onto the mattress. He doesn’t make it far, falling shoulder to shoulder next to Sam, both of them on their stomachs.

“The way you bitched about bottoming,” Dean mumbles, voice muffled by a pillow. “I never would have guessed you were such a kinky freak.”

He can feel Sam shrug. “I’m usually on the giving end instead of the receiving end.”

Dean lifts his face, blinking in surprise. “You mean you treat all your dates like I just did you?”

“Only the really good ones.” 

Sam _never_ talks like that. Dean turns his head sideways to look at Sam in disbelief. There’s a tiny smirk creeping around the edges of Sam’s mouth, and he’s looking at Dean with that “what, me?” look that he cultivated when he was about three and still innocent enough to pull it off.

Dean can’t do anything but laugh.

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

After he’s done cleaning up, Dean comes out of the bathroom buttoning his jeans. “So…” he says, looking at Sam. “You really read a hundred stories?”

Sam looks at Dean. “Maybe I read more than a couple hundred,” Sam shrugs. When Dean keeps staring, he turns his head to the side and looks embarrassed. “Maybe more than that.”

Dean is utterly and completely aghast.

“And you only found _one_ top Dean story that was kinda hot?” Dean shakes his head ruefully. “ _One_? There should be more top Dean stories.”

“I’m serious, Sam,” Dean goes on when Sam just looks at him. “It’s a tragedy. Someone should lead them by example.”

He can almost _feel_ the light bulb go on in his head.

This is _so_ far beyond even fangirling. He doesn’t care.

Sam goes to clean up, and twenty minutes later Dean’s got a registered LiveJournal account under the name sexonwheels67. He’s also got Word open on Sam’s laptop, typing away.

“What’re you doing Dean?”

Dean hesitates a second and looks at Sam. “Cock, or dick? What do you call it?”

Sam frowns. “Um. Both… I guess? Dean, what the hell are you _doing_?”

“Writing fanfiction,” Dean mumbles absently, backspacing.

“About…?”

Dean squints at Sam like Sam’s some kind of moron. “Us, genius.”

Sam’s eyebrows practically fly up under his bangs. “Let me get this straight. It’s not bad enough that the story of our lives is being published and other people are writing fake porn about it… You’re writing _real_ porn stories about our _real_ sex lives and _pretending_ that they’re fiction?”

“Fanfiction,” Dean corrects. 

Sam is literally speechless for a few long seconds, and Dean keeps typing, remembering to spell the word ‘come’ instead of ‘cum’.

“You really think anyone’s gonna read this?” Sam asks.

“Look at the stuff _we_ read, Sam. This has gotta be better than that.”

Sam sits down on the bed beside Dean and says, “You write, I beta.” 

*

After they finish, Dean posts the story in his LiveJournal and then posts a link to the story in the supernaturalfic community. 

“Now what?” Sam asks. 

“We wait a few hours and see how much people love it,” Dean grins.

*

They’re past dinner and Dean’s four more beers into the original _Amityville Horror_ on cable when he finally checks his email.

“So?” Sam asks, cracking open his second beer.

Dean blinks at the messages in his inbox, skimming through them for a few moments, and then turns to Sam with a broad grin. “Thirty-five comments, and they all loved it. _And_ I got friended by nineteen people.” He lifts his chin, proud.

“Seriously?”

“Told you we could do better.” Dean’s eyeing Sam and thinking about doing even better than that when the room kind of… expands and then contracts.

Castiel appears when Dean’s almost to his feet, and Dean sighs, rolling his eyes over at Sam. Sam raises his brows and tilts his head in a “what’re you gonna do?” motion before he takes a sip of his beer.

“There’s this thing called a door,” Dean informs Castiel. “You can _knock_ on it to let people know you’re here.”

“I…” Castiel looks down at the floor. “Didn’t know if you’d answer. You two have been… difficult to find… apart, lately.”

If Dean didn’t know better, he’d swear Castiel was blushing. Fuck. Even the angel knows. 

Dean takes a deep breath and shakes his head, taking another drink from the bottle. He cuts his eyes sideways at Sam with a question.

“No,” Sam says. “It’s fine. I’ll go.”

Sam nods at Castiel on his way out, grabbing the keys and slamming the door to the motel room behind him.

Castiel, for his part, seems unaffected by Sam’s bitchface category five. “Dean,” he says, fixing those bright blue eyes right on Dean with their usual intensity. “Another seal has been broken.”

Right. Seals getting broken. Dean feels like he should probably care more. Probably would have, three beers ago. 

“Lilith?” he asks.

“We don’t know.”

“How are we supposed to stop the seals from getting broken if we don’t even know who’s doing it?”

Castiel shakes his head. “It was the third to last seal. There are only two more standing between humanity and the end.”

“Yeah, I can count,” Dean snaps. He stops, backs up a step and looks at Castiel. Wait. Two? “You’re sure there’s only two?”

Castiel gives him a look filled with such gravity that Dean feels the pit of his stomach drop out. 

“What? You couldn’t give us a five seal warning?”

Castiel looks away from him, like he can’t stand to look at Dean all of a sudden, and that just makes Dean feel worse. Castiel looks tired, haggard, deep circles cutting under those steadily uncertain blue eyes.

“There’s more, Dean. You should know that… Anna is dead.”

“What? Like dead, dead? How?”

Castiel tucks his chin against his chest. “The weapon Uriel was using to kill the other angels in the garrison… Anna took it from him, killed him with it. And now someone has done the same thing to her.”

Dean grapples with the only thing he can comprehend right now. “Where’s the weapon?”

“In the hands of someone who will likely use it to kill more angels.”

Dean tries to absorb all of that, mind racing. Anna. Dammit. Well, at least maybe she’s finally happy now. “Where… do angels go when they die?”

That question makes Castiel look at him again, head tilting curiously to the side. “Angels do not _go_ anywhere. We are, or we are not. Once the grace is destroyed, everything we were goes with it.”

“Where does that get fair?”

“It’s the way it has always been.”

“Now I _definitely_ need another drink,” Dean says, moving for the cooler. He pops the top on the bottle and tosses back a long drink. 

“Her death, the deaths of all the others Uriel murdered...” Castiel looks down at the ground, brooding for a moment before he raises his chin. “What we’re doing here, Dean… we’re doing without the guidance of God’s direct orders.”

“Wait…” Dean goes very still, brain trying to catch up with Castiel’s words. “You mean we’re… we’re on our own?”

“No. I believe God is with us. But he’s not telling us what to do. We’re being left to decide on our own. I am not comfortable without orders,” Castiel informs him, eyes severe. “It makes everything uncertain. Angels were created to carry out God’s will. Without that… what are we?” Castiel’s glimmer in the low motel room light as he looks at Dean with hope for an answer.

Dean stares back at him for a long moment. He’s only got one answer to that.

“You want a beer?” he asks.

“Angels of the Lord do not drink.” Castiel gazes down at the open bottle in Dean’s hand like he’s mourning the death of a loved one, and this is a tragedy of proportions Dean can’t even begin to explain.

“Hey. God stopped keeping score, right?” Dean shrugs as he reaches into the cooler again. 

*

A few hours later, they’re sitting on the stools by the motel’s joke of a breakfast bar. Castiel leans against Dean heavily, one arm wrapped around Dean’s neck as he overbalances and almost falls off the chair. “You think you feel insignificant? I barely even have a _classification_. Ranked _third and last_ , in the _third and last **sphere**_ of angels.”

“That’s bullshit,” Dean proclaims, pointing a blurry finger at Castiel.

“It’s… difficult, having choices,” Castiel confesses, and then tilts up his bottle. “Why am **I** the one tangled up in human affairs? I could have been a seraph,” Castiel mourns. “Or a cherub.”

“Why do _we_ have to be the heroes, right?” Dean slings an arm around Castiel’s shoulders. “Nothing good ever happens to us. Sure, other people get saved; maybe the _world_ gets saved, but bottom line? It’s time to suck today’s dick _every_ day. We’re sucking the _universe’s_ dick.” Dean sways, almost overbalances and then settles back on the stool. “You know, I got to have a civilian life once. That didn’t completely suck, except that I was dying slowly the whole time.” 

“You mean the wish,” Castiel says, looking at him. “That is not what I would wish. I would wish to have absolute faith,” Castiel nods, body slinging violently forward and then back against the chair as he tips his beer up.

“Gotta love free will.”

“But you abandoned your wish. How do you… how do you go on, knowing what you’ve lost?”

Dean looks down at his bottle and then shrugs. “Because I have to.”

Castiel stops, face swaying, eyes fixing on Dean. “I think I understand why I was sent to you, Dean.”

Dean squints, cocking his head to the side. “Why?”

The door opens then, and Sam walks into the room.

Castiel sits up straight, clearing his throat.

“No, really. Why?” Dean asks.

Castiel doesn’t answer as Sam walks up to them. Dean looks up, and Sam’s bitchface requires categories beyond five as Sam looks them both up and down.

“I’m sick of this. Why do you two have this secret club I can’t be part of?” he demands. Sam smells like rum—like _lots_ of rum. 

Dean gets out of his chair, feels his body sway left, then right, then back and forth again. He narrows his eyes on Sam, squinting. “Were you driving drunk? In _**my** car_?”

“You’re getting an _angel_ drunk, Dean.”

“Yeah. But _he’s_ not _driving my car_.”

“Maybe I should come back later,” Castiel says, quietly.

“Maybe you _should_ ,” Sam says.

Castiel flickers for a moment, and then slides into full focus again, head and shoulders slumped over his beer bottle.

“I… can’t. My,” Castiel groans. “Stomach.”

Sam and Dean’s eyes meet, both of them raising a fist.

Dean throws scissors. Sam throws rock.

“Damn it,” Dean hisses.

*

The next morning, Sam is sitting on the edge of the motel bed in the sunlight, surly and hung over and scowling at Dean. Dean understands; he’s not really feeling much better himself. But he’s still kind of annoyed Sam’s looking at him like he ran over Sam’s puppy or something.

“Tell me you’re not being jealous,” Dean pleads, vehemently, eyes closing. “’Cause there’s a lot I can deal with, Sam, but…”

Sam’s _seriously_ annoyed, and this usually doesn’t end well. “I know why I’m not part of Heaven Incorporated. They think I’m evil.” Sam swallows hard, staring at Dean. “ _You_ think I’m evil.”

Christ. “Sam… nobody thinks you’re… evil.”

Sam’s chin comes up stubbornly. “You told me not that long ago that you’d hunt me yourself if you didn’t know me.”

Dammit. “Yeah. And I would. Except that I _do_ know you, Sam. There’s nothing evil about you. But you got your powers from the yellow-eyed demon.” Dean shakes his head and tries to find the words. “Using anything a demon gives you? Can’t end anywhere but bad.”

“It’s just until I kill Lilith.”

“And then you’ll quit, right?” Dean rubs a hand over his face and sits down near Sam. “’Cause it’s that easy.”

“I swear, Dean.” Sam’s eyes are huge, shining in the early morning light. “I know you’re… heaven’s chosen one or whatever… but I have the power to stop her. I have to _help_ you.”

“This is all about helping me?” Dean asks, voice tightening. “Then don’t do it.” Dean shakes his head. “Don’t. Because I can’t… lose you, too.”

“You’re not gonna lose me, Dean. But you need my help. Let me help _you_ for once. I can _do_ this. “

Dean sighs and pushes his face into his hands. “There’s always a price, Sam. We don’t get anything for free. Don’t you know that by now?”

Sam’s quiet for a long time, and Dean can feel him shift his weight, leaning forward. When Sam finally speaks again, it’s in a tone so raw and wavering that Dean winces against the sound.

“I know.” Sam breathes out hard. “But give me a chance, Dean.”

“And if you end up darkside? What’m I gonna do then?” Dean snaps, angry as he brings his head up, swinging to look at Sam.

One corner of Sam’s mouth curls in a tiny smile. “Save me,” he says. “That’s what we do, Dean.”

Dammit. How can he… He can’t even argue with that. “I’d…” Dean says and then clears his throat. “I’d rather not have to.”

“Story of our life.” Sam shrugs, hands twisting together across his lap, but Dean can still hear the waver in his voice.

Dean looks down at the floor and takes a deep breath. He wants to ask Sam what happens if he _can’t_ save Sam, but he can’t… can’t even think how he wouldn’t find a way if it came down to it.

“I’m gonna go get breakfast,” Sam says, pushing up from the bed. 

“Grease,” Dean demands, shooting Sam a fierce look, and Sam rolls his eyes before he grabs the keys and walks out the door. 

*

Dean’s in the middle of brushing his teeth and wishing like hell the taste in his mouth would go away when Castiel appears in the mirror behind him. Dean nearly skewers his face on his toothbrush and spins around, furious.

“You’re really never gonna get the hang of this, are you?”

Castiel is pale, and still looking a little green around the gills, two days worth of stubble on his cheeks, and that makes Dean feel just the tiniest bit better.

“I thought you’d want to know what I found out right away.”

Dean spins back to the mirror and continues brushing his teeth, eyes flashing up in the mirror at Castiel. “What?” he mouths around the toothbrush.

“There’s a barrier between Earth and Hell that has kept them separate for all of time,” Castiel begins.

Dean keeps brushing his teeth, because, duh, like he didn’t know that.

“But every structure has a weak point,” Castiel goes on. “Wherever that weak point is, that’s where the next seal will be broken.”

Dean looks up at Castiel and pulls the toothbrush from his mouth. “And if that happens?”

“The weak spot grows even thinner, weaker, until the last seal is broken.”

Dean throws the tooth brush aside, cups water between his hands and sucks it in, swishing it around his mouth before he spits. “And then…” he finally prods, when Castiel still doesn’t speak.

Castiel looks troubled as he gazes into the middle distance through the mirror over Dean’s shoulders. “Then Hell comes pouring out of it.”

Of course. It’s not like he expected anything _good_ to happen, right? He sucks in another mouthful of water, rinses and spits. “Do we know where this spot _is_?” he asks, turning around and leaning against the vanity as he runs the back of his hand across his mouth.

“No.” Castiel looks vaguely embarrassed by the admission. “But there is something. It’s said there was an artifact placed on this spot, to strengthen the mystical energies that keep Earth and Hell separated and keep them in place.”

Dean nods along. “Destroy the artifact; destroy the world.”

“Very nearly, yes. But it’s not the final seal.”

“What is?”

“Not one among us seems to know.”

“That’s… great. You wanna vague that up for me some more? I think you gave me a little too much _nothing_ there.”

“I’m doing all that I can, Dean. More than I should, sometimes.”

“And I kept you from falling into the toilet while you puked last night. I don’t think we’re even yet.”

“Not even for Ohio?” Castiel asks, mouth curving as he looks past Dean.

Dean squints at Castiel for a long moment, annoyed, and then he grunts and finally nods. “Okay, we’re even. But--”

“If I find out anything else, you’ll be the first to know.”

*

“He couldn’t tell you any more than that?” Sam asks, already opening his laptop. “Do angels even know what the internet _is_?”

“That’s why we’ve got you,” Dean says, shrugging.

Sam almost smiles at that, and then turns his head towards the computer, leaning forward, hair falling into his face.

*

Dean spends a while reading _Red Sky at Morning_ \--mostly because it’s one of the only books left that he can stand to read that he hasn’t already. It’s definitely not the best writing, like Chuck said… but there’s _something_ about it. Something Dean can’t quite put his finger on that keeps him turning the pages.

He leaves the room to get lunch earlier than usual, because he knows when he comes back, Sam will have found out something important—Sam can bitch about lame theories all he wants. Facts are facts. 

Sure enough, when he gets back to the room with two Styrofoam deli cartons, Sam looks up with ‘that’ look. 

“Where is it?” Dean demands, tossing Sam’s sandwich and chips on the bed next to where Sam’s stretched out. Dean sits down on the side of the bed with his own carton, looking at Sam expectantly.

“Charles County Maryland, the oldest Catholic Parish in America, founded in 1641. The marble stone on the consecrated altar was blessed by the _Pope_ and brought over by ship. Founding Father, Jacob White, claimed the church was so important that God himself had appointed an angel to protect the site from any and all evil that dared enter.”

“I bet they all think that,” Dean shrugs.

“Yeah. Except, I found part of a history excerpt from the 1700’s about how the Father at the time woke up in the middle of the night because someone busted into the church—and before he could say anything, the pulpit exploded in flames. He thought the church was on fire, and then he saw a guy standing in the middle of it.” Sam turns on his chair, looking at Dean. “With wings. And a sword.”

“Huh. Did he have a holy orgasm all over himself?

“He was terrified, Dean. He said he knew it was an angel, but it was still the scariest thing he’d ever seen in his life.”

“Must not have gotten out much.”

Sam raises his brows and dips his head to the side like he agrees and hits a button on his laptop. “He left the Parish a few months later.”

“So if there’s an Archangel watching over this place, maybe that’s where the seal is?”

Sam nods. “If it’s as important as Castiel said it is, then yeah, maybe.”

“So why wouldn’t Cas know about it?”

“What _has_ he known about, Dean?” Sam flicks Dean a deadpan ‘duh’ look.

“Maybe we should introduce him to Google.”

Sam shrugs and scrolls down the screen. “Anyway. It’s protected by an Archangel. That means we don’t have to worry.”

Dean starts to nod and then stops. Fuck.

“No. It doesn’t.”

Sam frowns at him.

“Cas told me that Anna took the weapon Uriel was using to kill the other angels and killed him with it. And then someone killed _her_ with it and took it.”

“Shit,” Sam sighs, falling back in his seat. Sam presses the fingertips of one hand against his forehead and lets his head fall to the side. “So we’re…”

“Eating in the car,” Dean nods, sighing as he gets up.

“We can’t,” Sam says abruptly as he gets to his feet.

“What? Why not?”

“Because I need to go summon Ruby first,” Sam answers, rummaging through his backpack. 

“What the hell for?” Dean demands.

Sam doesn’t answer, zipping up his pack and slinging it onto his shoulder.

“Speaking of ‘secret clubs’,” Dean starts, taking a step towards Sam.

Sam goes still and then turns to look at Dean. “If we’re right about this…” Sam’s expression is apologetic and determined. “It’ll be the last time I ever need to.”

Sam walks to the door and opens it, pausing for a second. 

“Trust me, Dean,” Sam says and then closes the door. 

*

_Trust me._

Sam’s holding something back from him; he knows that much for sure, he just has no idea what it could be. Sam started off lying to Dean about using his powers, but the last few weeks, he’s been nothing but completely honest about what he thinks he needs to do. Dean’s just not so sure he agrees.

But really… there’s no one else they can count on. No one else Dean knows has got his back, and if there’s one thing he’s sure of, whatever Sam thinks he needs to do, he’s doing it for Dean.

_Trust me._

If he can’t trust Sam… who can he trust?

Dean sits down on the end of the bed and sighs, watching the clock and listening for the sound of the car.

*

When Sam gets back, he doesn’t quite look Dean in the eye until Dean’s standing right in front of him. Sam glances up, looking like he expects Dean to bitch, or give him some kind of lecture. Dean takes the keys and twirls them around a finger before he shoves them into the pocket of his jacket.

“So? We saving the world or what?” he asks, strolling past Sam.

It takes Sam a few seconds to pick his jaw up off the floor, but when he does, he’s right behind Dean.

*

It’s about three in the afternoon when they get on the road. It’s going to be a long trip, at least fifteen hours, and Dean takes the first driving shift.

“Why put it in a church?” he asks Sam. “It’s not any safer there than in a museum or a vault.”

“Maybe whatever it is can’t be moved.”

Dean shrugs and then nods. “Okay. But riddle me this… The church magic’s up this really important _thing_ —like, game almost over if it gets broken kinda thing—why make it breakable?” Dean shifts his jaw and flicks two of his fingers away from the steering wheel. “I would've made it out of cast iron and coated it in platinum and Adamantium. If Adamantium existed.”

“Maybe they wanted it to be something they could hide in plain sight.”

“Why take the chance though, right? You’re gonna let the biggest lock between Earth and Hell hang out on your mantle and hope the maid never has a bad day with the feather duster?”

“It could be something up high, set into the stone, or the glass.”

“This isn’t the DaVinci code, dude. It could _be_ one of the stones. Or the tiles. Or wedged in _between_ the stones. I’m just sayin’; I’d hide the fuck out of something that important.”

Sam sighs. “We’ll find it,” he says, setting his jaw. “We’ll stop her.”

Dean nods and looks back at the road. “Yeah, we will.”

*

Dean pulls over during hour five of driving, Impala bumping along a wooded dirt road just far enough off the main back road. Sam blinks awake as they roll to a stop, yawning. Dean shuts the engine down and gets out; stretching his arms and legs as he hears Sam get out of the car on the other side, door slamming shut. The moon is rising, white and almost perfectly round, light throwing scattered shadows through the limbs of the budding trees. The visibility is good enough to navigate by, though, and Dean’s just about to suggest they go for a quick walk to stretch out, turning around to—

Sam slams into him, hands grabbing Dean’s cheeks, weight of his body pushing Dean back against the car with a hard thump as Sam kisses him. 

Sam’s right. There are better ways to stretch their muscles. Besides, they don’t know if they’re gonna come out of this whole thing alive or dead, and Dean always did wanna go out with a bang instead of a whimper.

He ends up with Sam bent over the Impala’s hood, upper body splayed across it, one of Dean’s hands pressing his face down against the car as Dean fucks into him with hard, fast strokes that rock the Impala back and forth. He grabs one of Sam’s wrists with his free hand and pushes it down against the base of Sam’s spine before he grabs the other and does the same, fingers wrapping Sam’s wrists and effectively pinning Sam’s arms behind his back. Dean rises up on his toes and thrusts higher, deeper, and Sam goes fucking _crazy_. His brother is making desperate, needy noises, and Dean knows exactly what Sam wants. Thinks maybe he wants to make Sam wait for it a little longer, just so he can appreciate the way Sam’s twisting and writhing around on the end of his dick, because fuck, it feels pretty goddamned amazing.

Dean takes a second to admire the image of Sam bent over the car, Dean’s cock fucking him ruthlessly from behind, hands pinned behind his back, face shoved down against the hood of the car, Sam squirming and practically begging Dean to let him come. Fucking Christ it’s hot. 

Dean slams into Sam, burying himself even deeper before he yanks back just as quick, and Sam’s whole body is shaking.

“Dean. Please.”

“Maybe,” Dean grates, thrusting hard and deep, “when I’m done with you.”

Sam makes some kind of pleading noise. 

“Or maybe I’ll just make you get back in the car all hard and unsatisfied, ride another couple hours like that. Bet I could keep you hard the whole time, too, right on the edge, needing it so bad.”

Sam shudders full-bodied, groaning, and Dean speeds up, pumping in and out of Sam so hard that Sam’s body jolts against the Impala, sealed so tight and hot and slick around Dean’s cock, and fuck, Dean isn’t going to last much longer. He gets up on his toes with one last thrust and buries himself deep, thighs trembling as he comes, violent pleasure raking through his stomach, tearing from him in long spurts. 

“Fuck yes.” Dean slingshots his hips and grunts, pulsing again, and keeps fucking Sam, pounding into him so hard that he’s almost shaking when he finally relents, face falling against the back of Sam’s shoulder for a second while he tries to breathe, sweat rolling down his face. 

He only stays there for a second, feeling Sam’s body tense underneath him, and then he stands up, pulling his cock free of Sam. He grabs his brother by the hips and flips him over on the hood, lips closing around Sam’s dick before Sam’s ass is even settled against the metal. Sam’s whole body is arching against the car, hands clamping down on Dean’s head, and Dean hollows his cheeks, sucks so hard that it almost hurts his mouth. Sam comes _instantly_ , so fucking hard it’s like a thunderclap, whole body quaking, fingers clutching, slipping off the back of Dean’s head. Dean keeps going, keeps sucking and swallowing, tongue dragging up the underside, and Sam’s practically thrashing, hips jerking, whole body stuttering until he’s spent, cock twitching weakly. Dean finally slackens the pace, sucking to the tip and tonguing the slit just to watch Sam gasp as Dean pulls away.

Dean tucks in and pulls his pants back up, taking his time buttoning and zipping them, admiring the way Sam’s sprawled on the hood, panting and nearly senseless.

“Jesus… fucking…Oh my God…” Sam manages in short, quick breaths.

Dean grins and grabs Sam by the lapels of his jacket, helping him stand up and lean against the car. “Come on, Princess. You’ve got three hours left to sleep. I wouldn’t waste any of ’em if I were you.”

Sam manages to get his clothes back in place, and then he’s asleep almost the moment he hits the passenger seat.

*

About three hours later, Dean pulls into an all night gas station and buys coffee before he even wakes Sam up. Sam takes the coffee gratefully as he rubs at his eyes, and shifts to the driver’s seat.

Dean sits there with his eyes closed, pretending to sleep. He can’t think about anything except Sam and what’s waiting for them at the end of the line. Finally he gives up the pretense of sleeping and fidgets, glancing between the landscape passing by and Sam’s profile. He spends four restless hours that way before they stop briefly again, and Sam tells Dean to sleep already and quit worrying so goddamned much. 

“Sam… if we don’t make it out of this…” Dean’s not entirely sure how he intends to finish that sentence.

“I know,” Sam says, quiet and sure, saving Dean from figuring it out. 

Dean finally falls asleep after that; rhythm of the car rumbling through his bones, cheek pressed against the passenger side window.

*

They arrive in the deepest, darkest hours before dawn. Dean blinks awake and everything looks pitch black through the car windows. He waits a minute for his eyes to adjust, and then something outside the door _moves_.

He reaches for the knife clipped to his belt, other hand grabbing for the door handle.

Ruby presses her face near the glass and raises her brows at Dean as if to say, ‘get with the program’.

He rolls down the window.

“She’s here.” Ruby eyes look even darker than usual, black and hollow under the moonless sky.

“Shit.” He exchanges a look with Sam. So much for hoping to get here before her and maybe get some leverage on the situation. 

They open the doors and get out of the car. Dean rubs a hand across his face, looking at the stone building in the distance. The lights pointing up at it from the ground leave shadows only in the deepest spaces between the old stones that form the walls. It looks like half a dozen other small churches Dean’s seen; high, cathedral arched rooftop, stained glass windows, large cross set at the point at the front of the rooftop.

“How many?” Dean asks, looking back at Ruby as Sam moves up beside him and hands him the keys.

“Just her.” Off Dean’s look, she shrugs, leather jacket crinkling. “I was surprised, too.”

“She’s getting cocky,” Sam says, voice low.

“Or her entourage is waiting in the wings,” Dean adds as he walks around to the back of the Impala and opens the trunk. Holy water, mojo bags, for all the good it’ll do them against Lilith’s power. He loads them into his pockets anyway, Sam and Ruby crowding behind him. Dean touches the demon-killing knife strapped to his belt, feels the smooth handle against his fingers, and closes the trunk. 

“What do you need me to do?” Ruby asks. 

“Stay outside. Watch out for anything coming up behind us.” 

Ruby nods and shares a brief ‘meaningful look’ with Sam that sets Dean’s teeth on edge. Sam cuts the look short, glancing over at Dean, shoulders hunching like he’s uncomfortable. Ruby gives Dean a once over with those inscrutable eyes, and then she walks off towards the darker trees at the edge of the dark clearing.

“If she’s in there, why isn’t the wrath of God raining down?” Dean asks.

Sam shakes his head and lifts his shoulders, and Dean can see they both know it doesn’t matter why or why not. This is it.

Sam and Dean step forward at the same time in unspoken, synchronous motion, heading towards the building.

They make it two steps away from the car before the ground ripples with tremors

Dean glances sideways at Sam. “Did you--”

The ground erupts into rumbling motion under their feet, whole building shaking. The windows of the church are lit from within with blazing, rippling orange light that can only be fire.

The Archangel.

The double doors to the church fly open with a blast of power that sends them stumbling back a step. Dean has to close his eyes against bright white light pouring out of the building, roaring sound of air rushing all around them, and the ground shakes so violently that Dean falls to his knees, teeth chattering. He reaches out blindly with one hand and grabs Sam’s shoulder, knot in his belly loosening as he makes contact. Sam’s still okay, they’re okay.

The world fills with a high pitched whine, light glowing so bright that Dean can see it through his eyelids. He screws his eyes shut tighter and grits his teeth against the sound, holding on to Sam. It lasts for a few more long seconds, the span of a couple heartbeats, and then it fades, sound echoing into silence.

The ground settles, still again, and Dean stays on his knees for a moment. He glances over at Sam and Sam’s expression says everything Dean’s feeling.

“Guess that just leaves us,” Dean says, letting his hand fall away from Sam as he pushes to his feet. 

Sam gets up beside him, dusting off, and they walk toward the open doors together.

“Where are the other angels?” Sam asks.

“Catching the game?” Dean suggests and shrugs.

Sam nods with a wry smile, and they step through the double doors side by side.

The inside of the church is beautifully lit with dim light, carved wood and statues glowing warmly, backed by long shadows. Down the red carpeted aisle between the pews, Lilith is standing behind the altar. She’s wearing the same body they saw her in last time, long blade twirling between her slender fingers, silver edge catching the light in a star-point gleam. “You guys are late,” she smirks. “You missed the show.”

“Shame,” Dean agrees as they walk up the center aisle to meet her. “I was really hoping to catch the end where you died screaming.”

“Sorry, no such luck,” she says, sheathing the knife somewhere inside the leather jacket she’s wearing. “Thing did manage to backhand me pretty good, though,” she adds, voice light. “Snapped this poor body’s spine in six places. So much for a life of dental hygiene. Anyway,” she shrugs, “at least you’re here now. I couldn’t start the second act without you.” Lilith smiles, stepping out from behind the altar.

“You should have broken the seal before you tried to kill us.”

“Oh, Dean,” she says, voice sickly-sweet with sarcasm as she walks up to him. “I don’t want you dead. Not since I found out you’ve got a prophet. How would I get famous without you?” Lilith turns smoothly, looking at Sam, narrowing her wide-set eyes. “You, on the other hand… I have other plans for.” She steps closer to Sam, getting way in his personal space. There’s something casually predatory about the way she angles her shoulders, pushes her face closer to Sam’s, and Dean feels his protective instincts kick into high gear. 

“Such a shame you didn't step up, Sam,” Lilith taunts. “There were a lot of demons that would've backed you. 'Sam Winchester; the kinder, gentler Antichrist'. 'The demonic agent of change'.” Lilith rolls her eyes. “Too bad you turned out to be such a pussy.”

Dean’s really tired of playing this game. “Fuck this. Get her, Sam.”

Sam shoots Dean a surprised glance, _Really?_

“Dude, you can’t let her talk to you like that. She just called you a pussy.” Fuck, he hopes he’s doing the right thing backing Sam’s play.

Lilith sighs. “You know, I’m two seals from unleashing Hell. The least you two could do is pay attention.”

Dean sneers at her. “You don’t even know where the artifact _is_ , or you would’ve broken it by now.” He pulls the knife at his waist free and lunges—

“What’s it like to be such a useless sidekick, Dean?” Lilith lifts a hand and Dean goes flying backwards, knife ripped from his fingers. He barely has time to register that he’s airborne before his back hits something _hard_. Something heavy gives and slides, and then Dean’s falling through old crumbling concrete. He lands on his ass, shoulders falling back against something solid. 

He’s inside the altar. He shakes his head to clear it and—

There’s a Devil’s Trap painted on the floor inside the altar. He’s sitting in the center of it, and it doesn’t make sense for a second until he sees the symbol for the Key of Solomon. 

Not to keep demons in—to keep them _out_. It’s protected against demons, to keep them from touching it.

Then that means the altar—

The whole church rumbles to the foundations, dust shaking loose from the ceiling.

\--was the artifact.

And Dean just broke it. Broke the motherfucking _seal_.

A wave of power explodes outward from the altar, sending Sam and Lilith tumbling. Dean covers his face with both arms and braces; sure he’s going to be vaporized. A moment passes and the rumbling settles, church shifting uneasily. Dean slowly lowers his arms, surprised. Huh. This must be one hell of a powerful Devil’s Trap.

Sam and Lilith are back on their feet, circling each other in the center of the wide aisle. Wind rises inside the church, swirling Lilith’s hair around her face, sending sheets of paper chasing each other through the air in a spiral towards the ceiling.

Dean starts to push up from the floor, but Lilith points a finger at him, and goddammit, that is a _really_ annoying power.

Sam pushes his hand out towards Lilith, face contorting as he calls on his power. 

Lilith smiles, all sharp teeth. “Feel that, Sam?” she asks, taking a step closer to him. “Mmm…” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “All that delicious power, so close? I can almost smell it.” She opens her eyes and steps even closer, putting her face close to Sam’s. “But you can’t, can you?” Lilith grins and turns her palm out towards the room, and Dean feels a sensation like air warping around him. “This close to home, I’m a _lot_ more powerful, Sam. Powerful enough to finally kill you like I should have years ago.”

Lilith lifts her other hand and Sam’s feet leave the floor, body flying halfway across a row of pews before he crashes into them with the sound of splintering wood. Lilith dips her fingers through the air, then up, and the pews between her and Sam upend with a sharp explosion of sound. Lilith casually tosses them out of her way with a fling of her hand as she walks towards Sam. Sam’s lying there in the wreckage of wooden splinters, bloodied and wide-eyed as Lilith circles him, smirking.

“If you weren’t so _human_ , you could probably tap into it, too, give me a decent fight. But this way is so much more fun.” As Dean watches, Lilith draws upon the power in the air, other hand turned out towards Sam. He can see Sam fall flat against the floor, body starting to compress under the power she’s pouring out on him. She’s _crushing_ Sam to death.

“Sam!” Dean struggles, trying to flail against the power holding him still, but he can’t move a muscle. God damn it. He couldn’t stop the seal from being broken, and now he can’t even help Sam. Dean closes his eyes against the sight of his brother’s face, blood trickling from his nose, the corners of his mouth, and sends a silent prayer up to God.

Dean feels the pressure on him suddenly loosen, eyes popping open just in time to see Lilith with the demon-knife in her back. Ruby’s standing behind her, and Lilith spins on Ruby, mouth twisting into a leer. Dean’s on his feet and running instantly, eyes focused on Sam.

“Can’t wait your turn?” Lilith barely gets the words out before Ruby slings a flask through the air, catching Lilith across the face with the spray of water.

Lilith’s face steams, and her mouth splits open in a grin. She backhands Ruby across the room and Ruby hits the wall so hard that Dean can hear the stone crack before she slumps to the ground.

Dean’s only a few feet away from Sam, ready to fall to his knees and slide the rest of the way, and then he’s frozen in place again, fucking—

The room doesn’t warp, it _yanks_ and _twists_ , and for a second it feels like all the air gets sucked out of Dean’s lungs. Sam’s got both his hands turned palm up and Dean can almost see the power rushing into him, invisible waves distorting the room like a heat mirage. The church fills with the screaming wail of souls, the rushing whirl of Hell, and he can _almost_ feel the walls between the worlds get thinner.

Dean’s body is under his own control again, but he stays where he is, five feet away.

Lilith turns, pointing an imperious hand at Sam and—

Sam whole body lifts in a straight line, setting him upright on his feet. The air crackles around him, tiny sparks of electricity dancing.

Sam tilts his chin down, eyes narrowing on Lilith, mouth pulling in a cruel smirk. “Guess who’s not so human after all?”

Lilith’s eyes go wide, pink mouth opening, head snapping back as black smoke starts to pour out.

“No,” Sam says, voice deep, calm and steady.

Her head snaps back down so violently that Dean can hear the bones in her neck crack, mouth shutting tight. The black smoke streaks back into her nostrils, and her eyes are glassy and terrified.

Okay. Sam is… really fucking scary right now. 

“Remember when you told me,” Sam says, stepping even closer and touching his fingertips to her cheek, “that you didn’t survive this?” He leans in close and strokes a thumb over her cheekbone. “Well… you don’t.”

“Please, Sam,” Lilith begs, her mouth is the only thing she can seem to move. 

Sam hums approval, like the sound of her voice is music to his ears, and then his smirk hardens. “Say it again,” he demands, thrusting his face a bare inch from hers as the smirk drops off his face.

And getting scarier.

“Sammy, kill her already for fuck’s sake.”

Sam cuts his eyes towards Dean and then he pulls back from Lilith.

He doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t lift a finger, and black smoke _explodes_ out of the girl’s mouth, incinerating in a flash of orange and yellow as it hits the air, ashes breaking apart and disintegrating. It’s spectacularly violent and sudden and complete. In the silence that follows, the girl’s body goes limp and crumples to the floor hitting the floor with a solid, meaty thump.

Dean starts to sigh with relief—

The wind kicks up with the howls of the damned, and Dean squints against it, throwing up a hand to shield his face. Through the space between his fingers, he sees Sam’s body rise, feet lifting off the floor, tips of his boots just scraping the ground. 

What the hell--?

The thought cuts short as the remaining pews tear free of their moorings like trees uprooting from the ground. The sound is thunderous as they rip free and tip dizzily into the wind, spinning into motion. Dean ducks one as it goes winging past, trips and nearly stumbles before he regains his feet. He keeps his hands in front of his eyes, body bent low as he pushes through the storm. He hopes like hell there aren’t any more pews coming in low, because he can’t see a goddamned thing that isn’t five feet around him right now. Doesn’t matter. He has to get to Sam.

He keeps pushing, calves and thighs straining against the force pushing on him, moving blindly in his brother’s direction. It occurs to him that maybe he should just fall down, crawl the rest of the way and avoid the spinning carousel of church pews—and then he remembers them ripping out of the ground and doesn’t understand why he’s not airborne already. 

Sam. It has to be Sam helping him, keeping him on his feet, and that means Sam isn’t gone yet.

Dean pushes his hands out in front him, eyes squinting to slits, and he can almost _see_ Sam through the rush of dust and debris. He forces himself another step—and then almost falls down as the wind just drops away. It’s calm here, in the center. It’s almost quiet , like the whirl of the storm around them is somewhere far away.

Sam is in the air, toes scraping the church floor. His arms are bent out from his sides palms up, and _everything_ ripples with almost invisible power, Sam’s head tilted back, smiling as he calls it home. His face is… Dean doesn’t use the word beautiful when it comes to guys… but Sam really _is_ , skin glowing and flushed with power, tiny crackles of electricity dancing over him, flaring white, purple and blue against the yellow-orange light of the church shining down on him. He looks… almost Christ-like… and that… that’s just _wrong_.

“Sam!” Dean takes the last few steps and grabs Sam by the shoulders, tries to push him back down to the floor. “Sam,” he pleads. “You’re opening the portal.”

“I know,” Sam says, head falling forward to look at Dean. His eyes are almost slack, like he’s doped beyond all sanity. “Isn’t it amazing?”

For a second, Dean can’t even think, can’t even begin to comprehend… and then words pour out of his mouth without any help at all from his brain. “You mean you’re _trying_ to do this?” The realization hits him like a gunshot, leaving him paralyzed, brain turning over and over again like a car engine refusing to start.

_Come on, Dean. Part of you always knew this was coming_

He doesn’t recognize the voice, doesn’t know where it comes from, but he thinks about reading _Red Sky at Morning_ earlier, the vague, nagging feeling that wouldn’t leave him. He thinks of two brothers; one good, one evil, chasing and battling each other through centuries. Remembers Castiel telling him that he didn’t envy Dean the choices he’d have to make in the coming days. Remembers Sam telling him about his demon blood, every argument they’ve ever had about Sam using his powers.

Yeah. He’s known this was coming for a _long_ time.

“I can feel them, Dean,” Sam’s eyes close briefly like the feeling is so pleasurable he can hardly stand it. Like he can hardly _wait_. “They’re so close. _He’s_ so close.” Sam utters the word ‘he’ with such reverence that Dean feels his stomach flip over. 

No. Sam is not evil. Sam is drunk on power and… he… he’s just driving under the influence right now. He doesn’t really mean it, and Dean _knows_ that, just like he knows that Sam needs to wake up.

“You have to stop.” Dean rises up on the balls of his feet, fingers digging into Sam’s shoulders, shaking him. “We came here to _stop_ this from happening.”

“Did we?” Sam arches his brows, looking right into Dean. “You’ve been to Hell. You found your place… and you _enjoyed it_ ,” Sam breathes, mouth twisting in a smile. “It’s freedom, Dean. No more worries, no more doubts. Don’t you want that?”

Dean _does_ , God help him, he really _does_ , and Sam’s mouth is so close… In Hell, there was no wrong, nothing he could screw up, and he…

He always knew what to do. It wasn’t like this; wasn’t full of possibility, or choices. Or having to live with them.

Dean shakes his head, feels a shudder in his chest. “No.” It’s the truth... and it’s a lie. But it’s the truth and the lie that he _feels_.

“You don’t mean that,” Sam breathes. His mouth is slow, hot, as he drags his lips across Dean’s. It’s... so familiar now… and Dean falls into it, kissing Sam back, biting the swell of his brother’s lower lip, one hand sliding up to trace the curve of Sam’s neck.

Sam’s so eerily calm, so unresponsive beyond the swirl of his tongue that Dean feels the hairs rise on the back of his neck. 

This isn’t his brother… not even close. It’s not Sam in there; so little of Sam left that his brother could slip away through Dean’s fingers while Dean stands here and watches.

Dean brings his hands up, closing his fingers on his brother’s cheeks as he pulls away. 

“Don’t, Sam. You do this, and it’s game over. I die, Bobby dies, _everybody **dies**_.”

Sam frowns, confused by Dean’s change, eyes glazed with power. “I’ll protect you, Dean.”

“I don’t want you to protect me,” Dean snaps. He closes his eyes for a second, feels them prick and start to burn, and blinks the feeling back. “So help me, Sam…” Dean shakes his head, so very sincere as he stares into his brother’s eyes. “You bring Hell on Earth and I swear I’ll kill _myself_.” Dean grits his teeth. “Because there’s no fucking way I’m sticking around to watch you become the goddamned Boy King.” Dean swallows and tries to breathe. “I _can’t_.”

“You will,” Sam promises. “Once you see--” 

“I don’t need to see it to know I don’t want any part of it, Sam.” Dean raises his voice, vehement, but it doesn’t stop his throat from cracking over the words. Sam’s head tilts slowly to the side, still just looking at Dean, and Dean can almost feel the flow of power to Sam slow; sparks of electricity around Sam’s body flickering and sputtering with uncertainty.

“I can’t lose you.” Dean’s eyes close for a brief instant, fingers curling against his brother’s skin. “Not again.”

“You’re not going to lose me,” Sam says, fingertips pressing against Dean’s face. “I’ll just be stronger. More powerful.”

Dean takes a deep breath, chest aching as he breathes out the words. “You’ll be a puppet, Sam. The Antichrist. Lucifer’s right-hand man. There won’t be any _you_ left.” 

“Dean.” Sam’s voice is soft now, eyes completely focused on Dean. “ _No one_ will be able to hurt either one of us, ever again. We’ll be safe--”

“I don’t _want_ safe.” Dean spits the words, angry. “I want what’s left of my family. I want my _brother_. I want _Sam_. _My_ Sam. My… dorky little brother with his stupid emo hair and his bitchy expressions and his Google-fu and wheat-grain pancakes. Right there… in the Impala… or on his laptop finding all the answers… and always looking at me like I’m out of mind for every other word that comes out of my mouth.” 

Sam’s shaking his head, eyes filled with something so much like wonder that it’s all Dean can do not to look away. He can’t. He can’t look away. Not now.

“Don’t take that.” Dean’s fingers clench, yanking Sam closer.

Sam’s body slowly falls, feet touching down against the floor, his face shifting, studying Dean. The draw of power stops completely, whirlwind around them slowing, stuttering and failing like reality sliding in and out view.

“Dean…” Sam breathes, voice barely a sound. His fingertips grip Dean’s cheek like one last plea for understanding.

“I don’t get to have anything else,” Dean grates. “At least give me _that_ , Sammy.” 

Sam’s eyes go sad and far away, and then the sparks dancing over Sam’s skin die out, flickering and fading like falling stars. The rush of the wind just _stops_ —such a sudden halt that the pews drop to floor in a crash of sound, hitting so hard that the floor rattles like its caught in an earthquake, dust rising and falling all around them, paper fluttering down like ash.

Sam lowers his chin and closes his eyes.

Waves of power ripple out from Sam; Dean can feel them, almost see them with the distortion of the room, in the lift and jag of drifting sheets of paper. The screaming voices rise to a crescendo—and cut off in mid-fury, sudden silence left behind like someone pulled a cord. 

Sam opens his eyes, and it’s Sam, just Sam, no scary, monstrous power lurking underneath. Dean’s so grateful for a split second that he can barely breathe—and then Sam’s eyes roll back in his head, his body going limp. Dean catches Sam against his chest as Sam falls, wrapping his arms around Sam’s shoulders. He shifts his legs to take Sam’s weight and just holds him there for a while.

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

It’s a couple minutes later when Ruby approaches them, and by then Dean’s got his arm around Sam’s shoulders, walking, half dragging Sam’s unconscious body with him. It’s not the easiest thing he’s ever done. The air is still hung heavy with dust and splintered, twisted wood litters the floor, making every step a challenge.

Ruby falls into step on Sam’s other side, frowning as she meets Dean’s eyes. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Dean grunts, trying to shift Sam’s weight to a more manageable point.

“Lilith?” Ruby asks, glancing around the church.

“Dead. Sam killed her.” Sam’s weight falls against him awkwardly and he braces with one knee, trying to keep them upright. “You… wanna give me a hand?”

Ruby nods, moving like she’s about to get Sam on the other side, and then she freezes, going completely still. Dean can read the sudden fear in her face. 

“What _now_?”

“Angels,” she says, eyes flashing black as she falls back a step.

Dean’s gotten so used to seeing the world warp today that it doesn’t even phase him when the air in the church shimmers like a heat wave. Zachariah and Castiel flicker into existence right in front of him. They’re wearing their perfectly neat, impeccable suits and ties, and Dean wonders if angels are required by God to ride corporate bodies only.

“Oh look,” Dean sighs with tired sarcasm. “It’s the Holy IRS Brigade.”

“Congratulations, Dean.” Zachariah is wearing his usual thin, creepy smile as he steps forward. “You did it. You stopped the seals from being broken.” Even the praise doesn’t keep his voice from sounding fake and condescending.

“ _Sam_ stopped Lilith,” Dean corrects. 

Zachariah folds his hands together across his stomach, fingers clasping while his thumbs spread apart. “But you stopped him from turning and opening the rift. That was the final seal.”

Dean doesn’t have enough energy left to be as pissed off as he should, and instead of his blood boiling, he feels it spike then go cold. “You could have _told me_ ,” he hisses. 

Zachariah is as calm and unruffled as ever. “No. I couldn’t.” He steps slightly to the side, and turns his head towards Castiel standing beside and behind him. “Neither could Castiel, because he didn’t know.” Zachariah’s eyes settle on Dean again, pale blue, and Dean hates the way they make the hackles on the back of his neck want to rise. “The final choice had to be yours, Dean, just like the first one that broke the first seal. We couldn’t risk influencing that in any way. Way to wait til the last second,” Zachariah adds with a glance around the church. “But you pulled it off.”

“Why did you…” Dean’s utterly speechless. How much more fucking _useless_ could these guys be? “Why’d you even bother coming down here if you couldn’t interfere?”

“We came to fight the war until you were ready.”

“Well thanks for nothing,” he sneers, shifting Sam’s weight and gathering himself to walk past them both. Christ Sam is _heavy_.

“You did well, Dean,” Zachariah adds. “It will be remembered.”

Dean could really give a shit right now. “Great.”

Zachariah vanishes then, edges of the room shimmering. Castiel still stands there alone, posture hesitant. He takes a step towards Dean, looking at Dean like he wants to say something, and Dean waits, because he could care about Zachariah, but he’s always kinda liked Cas.

Apparently Ruby doesn’t exactly hate him either, since she moves up cautiously on Sam’s other side and gets a shoulder under Sam’s. Dean feels Sam’s weight level out between them, and he’s really grateful.

“It’s been good to know you, Dean,” Castiel says, pushing his hands into the pockets of his coat. “I think I will miss talking to you.”

That sounds… final. Dean tilts his head to the side, surprised. “So I won’t be seeing you around anymore? No more surprise visits?”

Castiel smiles slightly, corner of his mouth quirking, and it occurs to Dean just how rarely he’s seen Castiel smile. “You might see me again someday, but not for a while.”

Dean thinks about that for a second and then smiles back. Truth be told, Dean might just miss him being around a _little_ bit. “Yeah. See ya around, Cas.”

“Take care of yourself, Dean Winchester. It’s been a pleasure.”

Castiel vanishes, then, too, blue eyes fading out last.

Sam shifts between Dean and Ruby, groaning as he opens his eyes. “What’d I miss?”

“Not much. Cas and Zachariah popped by to say congratulations and goodbye.”

“So it’s over? We did it?”

“Apocalypse averted.” Dean can’t hold back a grin. “So how you feeling?”

“Like I ate a bunch of mushrooms and got ran over by a truck,” Sam rasps, wincing. “Ow. My _head_.”

“Lucky a headache’s all you ended up with after that. Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

Dean moves out from under Sam’s shoulder and Ruby does the same. Sam wavers, wobbling on his feet before he balances, and then he lifts a foot to take a step and almost does a face-plant into the church floor, hands catching his weight at the last second.

“Come on, Francis,” Dean says as leans down and gets Sam by the arm, grunting as he helps Sam heave up from the ground.

The sun is just breaking the horizon as they emerge from the church, sky lit with a golden tinge at the edge, fading up into pale and then deeper blue. Between the three of them, they manage to get Sam to the car, and he falls back gratefully against the side of the Impala before he hisses, lifting a hand to his forehead.

“Here.” Ruby pulls out the demon-killing knife and hands it to Dean, and then she reaches into the other side of her jacket and pulls out another knife that Dean’s never seen before. 

“You collecting a whole set?” Dean asks.

“It’s the angel-killing knife,” she explains, sounding almost wistful as she runs a finger along the edge. She looks at it for another long moment, eyes caressing the steel, and then she hands it over to Dean, handle first. “You should have it. It won’t be safe with anyone else.”

Dean nods slowly and takes the knife from her hand, sliding the other into its sheath. “I guess we’ll still be seeing you around, huh?” Dean asks. He’s not really sure how he feels about that, especially considering the look Ruby and Sam are sharing right now.

“Maybe.” Ruby shrugs. The corner of her mouth quirks in that weird, almost shy way gets about her sometimes, and it perplexes Dean as much as it ever has. “The war is over, Lilith’s dead. You two don’t need my help anymore. But if you ever need me, you know how to call me.” 

“Yeah.”

Ruby nods, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear, and then slides her hands into the back pockets of her jeans before she turns away.

Dean thinks about what she said as he watches her walk away under the thin light of dawn. When she disappears, he turns and helps Sam get the door open, wrangling Sam into the passenger seat. 

He’s still thinking as he slides behind the wheel. “So what _are_ we gonna do now, Sam? The war’s over. Lilith’s dead.” Sam’s silent and Dean thinks a little while longer. “There’s always hunting things, saving people.”

“Might… be nice… just to go back to that,” Sam offers, and then groans.

“It _was_ fun sometimes,” Dean grins, tongue sliding between his teeth.

“Yeah.” The corner of Sam’s mouth tugs into a smile despite the frown of pain on his face, fingers pressed to his forehead. “But I think I need some Motrin first.”

It’s in the trunk, in the first aid kit, and Sam knows it as well as Dean does. Dean turns the car off and starts to open the door, and then stops.

“How’d you do it, Sam? I mean… yeah… you’ve got Azazel’s blood in you… but you’re still human. You… shouldn’t have been able to do that.” Dean flicks his eyes sideways and risks a glance at Sam. Sam is completely still, his eyes troubled, brows closed together in a frown—but Dean can’t tell this time if it’s physical or mental pain making him look like that.

“I had Ruby do something,” Sam finally says. “Something I’m never going to need her to do again.”

“What?” Dean demands.

Sam scowls and closes his eyes, jaw adjusting in that way that says he’s _really_ not enjoying talking about this—and that means he might tell Dean, or he might clam up. Sometimes it depends on what Dean says next; sometimes it just depends on Sam and what fucking mood he’s in _this_ time. 

Dean holds his tongue this time, mostly because he can’t think how to follow up on that. The rest of him stays quiet because he knows _everything_ about Sam, except this, and he really wants to know.

Sam’s expression draws painfully tight in the seconds before he turns his face away, breathing out hard and _waiting_ for Dean to judge him. “I… I… drank her blood, Dean. To make my powers stronger.”

Jesus fucking _Christ_. Dean expected a _lot_ of things. He’s read enough fanfic to expect just about anything—but drinking Ruby’s blood? What the fucking _fuck_ was Sam _thinking_?

Dean bites down hard against his jaw, closes his eyes and just… breathes.

“I’m gonna get that Motrin,” he manages before he pushes the door open.

Dean’s hands shake as he opens the trunk, fumbling the latch on the first aid kit three times before he finally gets it open. Drinking _demon blood_. _Willingly_. Why?

_You’re my big brother. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you._

Dean squeezes the Motrin bottle hard as he slams the trunk shut.

No. Sam still needs to explain this. Or Dean needs to punch Sam, or _something_.

Dean throws open the door and slides back inside the Impala, handing the bottle off to Sam without looking at him, other hand tightening in a fist as he stares out at the trees. “Why, Sam?” he asks, voice more ragged and tired than he wishes it was. 

“Because it was the only way we could win.” Sam sounds just as tired as Dean. “It’s not like what the yellow-eyed demon did. There’s no ritual, no permanence. Ruby’s a lesser demon. Her blood is a temporary boost. It’ll wear off in a couple of weeks.”

Dean nods once, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “So you’ve been drinking her blood for months. That’s how you were getting more powerful.”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes.

Dean shoves the key into the ignition and throws the car into gear, yanking on the shifter and flooring the gas pedal.

*

Sam doesn’t say a word. Just takes his Motrin and passes out minutes later, head lolling against the seat.

*

Dean’s pissed all the way down I-95. Yeah, he fucking _gets_ it. Sam did it so they could win, but every time he thinks about Sam… sucking blood out of Ruby’s throat or…

He grits his teeth and grips the steering wheel hard.

*

Highway street lights flash by, green exit sign after green exit sign, and he could give a shit. 

Sam did it to help Dean—to take out Lilith. He really _does_ get that. Sam did it for _him_. But… _blood_? Sucking the blood out of her?

Every single image he can imagine of that turns dirty.

*

Sam’s been asleep for hours when Dean finally picks an exit. 

He finds a motel and buys a room, shaking Sam to wake him up.

“Where are we?” Sam asks, sitting up and wiping a hand across his mouth as he looks out the window.

“North Carolina,” Dean answers. Sam’s eyes are bleary from sleeping, but otherwise, he seems absolutely fine. “I got us a room.”

Sam nods and gets out of the car, grabbing his pack as Dean does the same, and everything _seems_ like it’s normal, but then, they’ve gotten really good at pretending over the years.

The door to the motel room is barely shut when Dean finally has to ask.

“How?” Dean demands, throwing the keys down on the nightstand. “How’d you drink the blood?”

Sam’s face falls and he turns away towards the bed as he sets his backpack down. “From her arm.”

“Just her arm?” 

Sam turns back around slowly, head cocked, face frozen in an expression of disbelief. “It’s not even the blood… is it? Are you… _jealous_ , Dean?” Sam’s completely astounded.

Dean snorts. “You’ve been reading too much fanfic.”

“You’re _jealous_ ,” Sam confirms, and he doesn’t look nearly as surprised as he should be for reaching that conclusion. In fact, he looks kind of smug.

Dean walks around the bed, eyes narrowing on Sam. 

“You totally are,” Sam grins.

Dean grabs him, throwing all his weight against his brother as he pushes Sam down on the bed, falling on top of him, hands closing around Sam’s wrists and pinning them against pillow. He bites Sam’s chin, body sliding up slowly, cocks dragging against each other.

“Never again, Sam.”

Sam’s staring back at him through lust-glazed eyes, but they don’t impair his voice at all.

“Never again,” Sam promises. “I… I only did it--”

Dean slams his mouth against Sam’s cutting off the flow of words. “I know…” he says, teeth tugging at Sam’s lower lip and pulling back before he tongues the spot underneath. “But don’t think…” tongue flashing across the stubble of Sam’s chin, hand rising into Sam’s hair, “I’m not gonna…” Dean yanks Sam’s head back, tongue tracing a line up the center of Sam’s pulse, teeth closing against the thin skin underneath Sam’s chin before he releases, looking Sam right in the eye, “make you pay for it.”

“I was kinda hoping,” Sam says, breathing fast.

Dean curls his fingers around both of Sam’s wrists and holds them against the pillow, mouth diving into his brother’s, tongue plunging deep, sucking hard, hips rocking against Sam’s. Sam moans, arching against him, pushing into Dean’s fingers as he tilts his head back. Sam smells like sweat and tastes like acrid salt, darker taste of something else that Dean really doesn’t want to think about. He licks it away, instead, his tongue curling against Sam’s skin.

“Can’t believe you went to her like that.” Dean bites down hard, knuckles closing around the long strands of Sam’s hair. Dean drags his mouth down Sam’s throat, teeth closing around the collar bone, sinking deep until Sam moans with something less than pleasure, and then he bites even harder, makes Sam twist and buck before he finally relents.

“Did you have to beg her, Sam? Did you have to ask ‘please’?”

Sam turns his face against the pillow, body straining under Dean’s. “Sometimes,” he hisses.

“Bet she fucking loved it.” Dean seizes the flesh Sam’s shoulder between his teeth, twists and drags, pulling away hard. Sam shudders, hands pushing against Dean’s hold, and Dean shoves Sam’s wrists back down against the bed, bites Sam’s throat and growls. “Didn’t fight her when she gave you what you wanted, did you, Sam?”

Sam goes still underneath him. “No,” he whispers.

“Bet you laid down and took whatever she gave you like a good little boy.” Dean’s voice is gritty, raspy, with dark anger, and Sam shivers at the words. “Just like you’re going to now.” Dean closes his mouth on Sam’s neck, sucking skin between his teeth and then sucks even harder, hand tightening in Sam’s hair, fingers squeezing Sam’s wrists hard enough to leave bruises. He sucks at the skin until Sam’s moans of pleasure turn to a hiss of pain, and then he pulls back, admiring the dark, mottled purple his mouth leaves behind.

He licks and sucks, biting a trail of marks down Sam’s chest, hands sliding from Sam’s hair, releasing Sam’s wrists, but Sam doesn’t move except to moan and twitch against Dean. Dean puts his hands on Sam’s waist and pushes down to keep him from bucking while Dean takes his time making a line of teeth marks down to the edge of Sam’s jeans, ending where Dean bites down on the soft skin in the hollow of Sam’s hip. He sucks against the skin until blood rises underneath, hot and dark, and Sam trembles. Dean smiles, tugging free with his teeth, and Sam makes a surprised sound, hips jerking. Dean knows it has to hurt--sensitive as the skin is with blood pulled to the surface—but Sam’s twisting under him like it feels amazing.

Blood… Ruby’s blood as much as Sam’s. Dean pops the button on Sam’s jeans, tugs the zipper down and strips the rest of Sam’s clothes away before he grabs Sam by the shoulders and flips him over on the bed. He grabs Sam’s hands and puts them together over Sam’s head, pushing down forcefully, before he lets go and spreads Sam’s thighs apart, pushing down more firmly than he needs to, motion clearly saying “stay”. Then he gets up on his knees, beginning to peel off his own clothes. Sam stays still until Dean’s naked, sliding up behind and on top of him, head of his bare, spit-slicked cock dragging hot and heavy up the center of Sam’s spread legs. He closes his hands around Sam’s waist, cock pushing against Sam’s rim, teasing, and Sam’s hips start to arch up. Dean lets go with one hand and hits Sam’s ass with a resounding slap. He slides it up into the back of his brother’s hair and grips Sam hard, chest gliding slow up Sam’s spine until his mouth is pressed to Sam’s ear. 

“You begged her like a _slut_ , Sam,” Dean hisses, other hand grabbing Sam’s hip and shoving him hard against the bed. He nudges with his hips, head of his cock parting his brother, tight heat squeezing him. “Needed it so bad… and I bet you were _so_ grateful,” Dean growls, twisting Sam’s head as he thrusts, “when she gave it to you.” 

Sam gasps and goes stiff, tightening down against Dean so hard that Dean’s fingers flex in the groove of Sam’s hips, fingernails drawing blood. 

“God… take it so fucking easy now,” Dean grates out as he hits bottom, teeth catching the edge of Sam’s ear. “Just like a fucking slut _should_.” Dean doesn’t hesitate, yanking his hips back and slamming into Sam. Sam jolts underneath him, fingers clawing at the bed above his head, eyes closed and mouth open in soundless pleasure.

“Did she make you feel like this, Sam?” Dean demands as he pounds into Sam again. 

Sam shoves his head backwards into Dean’s grip, answer desperate and immediate. “No.”

Dean smirks, leaning down and biting the knob of bone at the top of Sam’s spine where it’s still bruised and sore, cock ramming, grinding into Sam and hitting every sweet spot he can find. He does it again, and again, until he’s got a perfect rhythm, driving into Sam with hard, deep, punishing thrusts, until Sam’s moaning, and then pleading—

“Please, Dean. God, please.”

“See? Slut,” Dean breathes; closing his teeth around the base of Sam’s neck, hands shoving Sam’s head and hip against the bed. “Ought to fuck your mouth so you’ll shut the hell up,” Dean growls. Sam starts begging in a senseless stream of sound as Dean hammers into him, and fuck, Sam’s so hot inside, so tight, clinging and clutching at Dean’s cock. “But you’re… _my_ slut, now.”

Sam lets out a choked whimper at the sound of Dean’s words, and Dean can hear how close Sam is, can feel how close he is, himself. He wants to wait, drag this out, but he’s not going to last much longer. 

“Mine, Sam.”

“Yes.” Sam shudders, word leaving him breathlessly.

Dean pulls his hand from his brother’s hip and slides it around the bone, down to where Sam’s so hard that Dean barely has to _touch him_ before Sam’s coming into the sheets, body wrenching violently around Dean’s dick.

And yeah, that… that’s… Dean whites out with pleasure, hips shuddering, thrusting on nothing except instinct as he comes, grinding hard into his brother’s ass.

_Fuck_.

*

It takes a few minutes for either of them to regain their senses, both of them breathing hard, hearts pounding.

Sam’s sweating, completely fucked out, body marked with Dean’s mouth and fingernails, sprawled limp against the bed. And… Dean has to admit… it’s kind of hot. 

Maybe he’s kinkier than he thought. 

Whatever. He saved the world today and fucked his little brother within an inch of his life—he feels as fucked-out-tired as Sam _looks_ , and there’s no way he’s moving except to roll off of Sam and onto his back.

*

When Dean opens his eyes in the dim light of very early morning, there’s something heavy trying to crush him into the bed, and he has a moment of blind panic before he realizes it’s just Sam, half-draped across him like a huge fucking ape. That’s just… Clingy. And wrong. Fucking’s one thing, cuddling is something else all together.

He’s too tired to do much more than let his eyes fall shut again. Screw it. Sam’ll be embarrassed enough for both of them come morning.

*

Dean wakes up first anyway, and has to throw Sam’s arm off of him before he slides off the bed and heads for the bathroom.

Sam walks in while he’s in the middle of taking a piss, and okay; they’re both naked and Dean’s still whizzing into the toilet and Sam’s leaning around Dean, shoulder brushing against the back of Dean’s thigh as he turns on the shower. Dean squints down at him sideways for a second, and then shrugs, shoulders lifting and falling just a bit as he shakes off. 

“Leave me some hot water, bitch,” Dean says as he moves to the sink.

*

Dean leaves Sam to the shower and falls onto the bed, still naked as he reaches for the remote. His cell phone rings and he reaches for it, eyeing the number for a second before he flips it open.

“Chuck?”

“Dean.” Chuck sounds… almost _happy_ to hear Dean’s voice. “I just… wanted to say… I’m glad that… things… worked out. Because if I’d had to write anything else…” Chuck’s voice wavers, hedging.

“You didn’t know how it was going to end?”

“ _No one_ did. All I could see was up to the point of Sam rising off the church floor. It… didn’t look good. I thought for sure…”

“Well,” Dean says, tilting his head to the side, brows drawing together. “Glad we didn’t call _you_ for the weather forecast.”

Chuck titters out a laugh, and then says, “Thanks for the case of whiskey.”

“Sure. And hey…” Dean hesitates for a second, tongue flicking over his lips. “Sorry about…you know.”

Chuck’s quiet for so long that Dean checks his phone to see if he’s lost his signal.

“This isn’t going in the Gospel either… but Dean? That connection…? I think that’s all that saved you two.”

Chuck hangs up then, and Dean’s left staring at the phone.

Chuck _would_ think that. Dean chuckles and sets the phone down, reaching for the remote.

_Fangirl_.

*

Twenty minutes later, when Sam finally comes out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist, Dean’s still lying on the bed, covers thrown over his hips as he watches TV.

“What’re you watching?” Sam asks, digging into his backpack.

“ _Apocalypse Now_.” Dean smirks at the irony.

Sam freezes in mid-rummage, standing up. Oh _great_. Dean never should’ve said anything.

Sam’s voice is low as he speaks, and Dean can barely hear him over the din of the TV.

“I still can’t believe you stopped it.”

Dean hears the implicit “me” in the place of “it”. 

“ _You_ stopped Lilith.”

“But you stopped _me_.” Sam’s got that adoring look he gets sometimes; the one that makes Dean alternately squirm and beam.

“I just didn’t wanna live in a world without pie,” Dean says and shrugs.

Sam snorts out a slow, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head as he smirks. “Right.”

“Porn and _pie_ , Sam. That’s what it’s all about.”

“You left out bacon.” Sam arches a brow at Dean.

“You _are_ my brother,” Dean confirms reverently, like he’s only just finally gotten proof.

Sam laughs. “So. Bacon and porn and pie for breakfast?”

“ _Now_ you’re talking,” Dean grins.

*

Sam goes out to find a diner while Dean showers and they _do_ have bacon and porn and pie for breakfast. It’s awesome for the first five minutes until Sam starts complaining about the stupid plot of the porn they’re watching while he forks at his pie. Dean doesn’t really mind Sam complaining though, because he’s got bacon and porn and pie and this is the best morning _ever_ —especially since Sam finishes his pie and gets so bored with the plot that the porn turns live fifteen minutes into the movie.

They don’t have anything to do, anywhere to be, and no one’s trying the end the world.

Everything’s normal again.

Well—Dean thinks as Sam starts sucking his cock like he’s trying for an Olympic medal—it’s as normal as it’s ever gonna get in _their_ lives, anyway.

*

The one thing that’s never going to be normal, Dean thinks as he leans over the laptop, is the fucking _fanfic_. Yeah, okay. They fuck, now. Maybe their fans were right about _that_. Maybe the fans were even partially _responsible_ for that. But the epic love they all keep insisting on? Just doesn’t make sense beyond _brothers_.

“Listen to this,” Dean says, turning his head to get Sam’s attention before he looks back at the computer screen. “No shit. Conversation between a fan and her husband; “Honey, would you _go to Hell **forever** _ for your _brother_? “Husband: “No. It’s HELL.” Fangirl: “What about for any of your three children?” Husband: “No… probably not. It’s HELL.” Fangirl: “What about for _me_? Would you go to HELL, forever, so I could live?” Husband: “In a second.” Fangirl: “Exactly! _No one_ goes to HELL for anyone, except their One True Love.” Husband: “Yeah”. Fangirl: “So you totally ‘ship Sam/Dean, right?” Husband: “Uhhhhh…”

Dean shakes his head. “What the fuck is up with that?” he asks as he clicks on another link.

“It’s valid.” Sam shrugs. “You went to Hell for me. I’d have gone to Hell—traded places with you in a second, if I could’ve,” Sam says, bringing his chin up. “Who does that for their _brother_?”

That. That’s just…

“Okay,” Dean says, slamming the laptop shut. “Now they’ve infected _you_ with the crazy,” he says, turning hard eyes on Sam.

“I’m not the one obsessing over it, Dean.” Sam unwraps his cheeseburger and takes a bite.

“So you _agree_?”

Sam chews and swallows, shrugging. “Just conceding the point.” 

“You _would_ ,” Dean snorts, rolling his eyes, and then adds, “Bitch.”

“Jerk.” 

*

They fuck, quick and hard against the bed after they eat, Dean lying against Sam’s chest afterward as he catches his breath, face practically shoved inside a discarded cheeseburger wrapper caught under Sam’s shoulder.

“Where to now?” Dean asks.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam says and shrugs.

*

They’re driving down a straight, flat, highway; wide, double yellow lines laid out ahead of them. The lines stretch into the distance, pavement and barren, flat desert land meeting the sky where it turns orange, pink and red. The windows are rolled down and Led Zeppelin’s playing in the background, and Dean’s only got one hand on the steering wheel, other playing in the wind outside the door.

“You know Chuck found a new publisher for his fourth series of books?” Sam asks.

Dean’s mouth twists into a smile, and he shakes his head. “They could make a movie about us one day, you ever think about that?” Dean turns his head to look at Sam. “How weird would that be?”

“I was thinking more like a TV series,” Sam grins.

Dean laughs and puts his other hand on the wheel as they drive towards the sunset.

“Who the hell would watch that?” 

 

FINIS

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END NOTES & DISCLAIMERS: No fanfic writers were harmed in the making of this fic. The vegetable story, the jizz of baby cherubs story and all other fic mentioned, are (to the best of my knowledge), completely made up by me. Any resemblance to actual stories or authors living or dead is purely coincidental. All quoted stories are mine except for the one obviously written by nu_breed, which was used with her permission back when this was written, and Dean's Jack-the-Ripper dream, which is the cracked-out brainchild of my beloved cormallen. It should be noted here that the views on fandom expressed in this story reflect the opinions of the characters and do not reflect the opinions of the author. Dean hopes you have a good sense of humor and don't try to lynch me ;) 
> 
> RE SHAMELESS SELF-INSERTION: I did it for the meta. And so as not to make fun of any other actual authors. And it wasn't exactly shameless, more like awkward.
> 
> FACT CHECK: It should be noted that the ending to this fic was written weeks before I saw the finale to S4. The fact that they ALSO decided to go with a ‘thin spot’ AND picked a holy building in Maryland is purely crazy-ass coincidence. When they revealed that in the finale, I was making faces at the screen that I'm glad you don't have pictures of. I picked the first Catholic Church in the U.S. (I actually lived near it for years and have been inside it), they picked the one (not so very far away) where eight nuns were actually murdered in real life back in the 70's.


End file.
